In Brightest Day, In Darkest Night
by Maya
Summary: *Complete.* Set after 'The Beast Within'. What do Templars and the Legend of St. George have to do with the destiny of the Ritter heir? Gabriel and Grace must unravel the mystery behind a gruesome series of murders in a small French town...
1. Prologue

  
**[In Brightest Day, In Darkest Night...][1]**   
**[A Gabriel Knight Mystery][1]**

**_"Sed ita a principio inchoatum esse mundum ut certis rebus certa signa praecurrerent..."_**

**_"Thus in the beginning the world was so made that certain signs precede certain events..." -- Cicero_**

_Disclaimer: Gabriel Knight, Grace Nakimura and other characters from the Gabriel Knight games are not mine. They belong to Jane Jensen, Sierra Studios, and whatever other PTB that apply. This is fanfic, I don't make any money from it, it's all in fun. Actual historical events, locations, and people are used and (mis)interpreted to suit my convenience. However, any resemblance to any real, live people you think you know is purely coincidental. Really._

Send me feedback. Even if you think it's terrible. Please.   
Email: maya_ar@hotmail.com

**Genre:** Adventure/Mystery

**Characters:** Gabriel Knight, Grace Nakimura, Michael St.Clair (original character), other original characters.

**Rating:** PG-13 for violence and mild profanity.

**Continuity:** This story is set a few months after the end of 'The Beast Within' - the second game in the Gabriel Knight series.

**********************************

**Prologue**

**_ "We are the music makers,_**   
**_ And we are the dreamers of dreams,_**   
**_ Wondering by lone sea breakers,_**   
**_ And sitting by desolate streams;_**   
**_ World-losers and world-forsakers,_**   
**_ On whom the pale moon gleams;_**   
**_ Yet we are the movers and shakers_**   
**_ Of the world forever it seems." -- Arthur O'Shaughnessy_**

**********************************

_Moonless night shrouded the countryside in gloom. An indefinable terror choked the air, as though the very darkness had taken physical form and stalked the earth with predatory intent. A human figure lay prone on the grass, unmoving, except for convulsive tremors of fear. A shape, vaguely human in contour, knelt over the shivering body. It raised a strangely gentle hand to stroke the terrified face, crooning a wordless song of anticipation._

_The kneeling figure seemed to gather itself, and a dully gleaming knife suddenly appeared in its right hand. There was a terrible pause, the hunter seeming to to relish its prey's paralytic agony of fear. The blade swept sharply down, straight for the heart..._

Gabriel woke up, screaming.

He sat up in bed, disoriented and trembling. For a long moment, he couldn't recall where he was, until the moonlight streaming through the bedroom window let him distinguish his own reflection in the mirror hanging on the wall opposite. He stared at the wild-eyed, sweat-drenched image that confronted him, and ran a shaking hand through his hair. A moment's respite brought him back to reality: he was in his own bedroom at Schloss Ritter.

The bedroom door slammed open, startling him, so that he rolled reflexively out of bed, landing on the floor in a tangle of sheets. Then the lights came on, letting him see: Grace, with one hand on the light switch, looking anxious and apprehensive.

"Grace! Jesus, that took a couple of years off my life! Didn't anybody ever teach you to knock?"

Grace's anxious expression turned into the familiar exasperated frown.

"Oh, right. And I suppose that was me screaming fit to wake the dead just a minute ago..." She broke off as she noticed Gabriel's gaze moving down from her face.

"Ni-ice outfit, Gracie," he grinned. "Do you save it for special occasions like this one?"

Glancing down at her short white nightshirt, she blushed a furious red and turned to run out of the room, almost bumping into a startled Gerde at the door.

Gerde stepped out of her way, looking as worried as Grace had a moment earlier.

"Herr Knight, are you all right? I heard you cry out..."

Gabriel suddenly became aware that he was sprawling on the floor in a very undignified position, and got up, wincing as he felt bruises in various awkward places. He blinked and rubbed his eyes, feeling a headache coming on.

"I'm O.K., it was just a nightmare." He picked up the sheets and tossed them back on to the foot of the bed again.

Grace came back in, tying a robe around herself. Gerde, efficient as ever, was already wearing her own. Gabriel couldn't recall the last time he'd seen her with even a hair out of place.

Grace came forward, looking anxious again.

"Was it a nightmare, Gabriel? Do you remember anything?"

Gabriel scowled at her and swept his hair out of his face again. "Don't nursemaid me, Gracie.." Then his face relaxed.

"Oh hell, I'm sorry. Sit down, Grace. You too, Gerde."

Gerde pulled the lone chair in the room to the foot of the bed and sat down. When Grace hesitated, Gabriel sat down on the bed and patted the space beside him.

"Come on, Gracie. We need to talk."

She complied, tying her robe more firmly around herself. Gabriel noticed she sat down at least a foot away from him, and smiled wryly to himself.

"Yeah, it was the same dream again. The one I've been having three nights in a row."

Grace started to speak, but Gabriel held up his hand to forestall her.

"I know, I didn't want to discuss it before. But if there's anything I've learned by now, it's that when I start having the same dream over and over, I'd sure as hell better not ignore it..." He paused to collect his thoughts.

"It's kinda confused, images flashing before me, snatches of words that I don't understand. There's a shield: it's white with a big red cross on it. I'm in a cave, with lots of people chanting: something about Mithras? That's what it sounded like. Like I said, there's a white shield with a red cross on it and then a gold, uh, medallion, maybe? It's round, pretty large, it's got something embossed on it. There's a voice whispering in my ear, over and over : sounds like 'Asmodeus'. Then there's a flash of light..." He stopped, searching for words.

"The next part really turns my stomach, so I'll skip the details, O.K? It's a dungeon, and these horrible things are happening; men being tortured, there are screams, I can smell blood and something's burning. There's this guy who's being tortured, an old man - God, Grace, they had him nailed to a door! I keep thinking, I'm going to pass out, or throw up, or something, but it's like I can't move... I can't even close my eyes..." He took a deep breath.

"Then suddenly, I'm out in the open, and I can see the same old man in front of me: they're going to burn him, at the stake, poor bast..d. Just as they set fire to the wood, he says something."

"He says, 'Let evil swiftly befall those who have wrongly condemned us - God will avenge us.' Then, it's weird, Gracie, he turns and it's like he's looking right into my eyes, I swear it! He looks right at me and says "Keep your trust, Sir Knight."

"Then he looks up at the sky and says something real softly: sounds like 'Invicto'. That's when the screaming starts. Jesus, I can still smell him burning...! And then..." He stopped and swallowed hard.

"What, Gabriel? What do you see next?"

He visibly steeled himself to continue.

"Then it's me that's burning. I can feel the heat of the fire around me, and right in the middle of the flames, I can see my talisman, the Ritter talisman..."

There was silence. Gabriel looked up to see Grace and Gerde still and shocked.

"And that's when I wake up."

"Gabriel! you can't mean.." Grace was pale, and he could see she was shaking.

He grabbed her hands and held them in a comforting grip.

"Calm down , Grace, it doesn't mean I'm going to die, O.K?" he said urgently. "Remember, I used to see myself hanging, way back when I first started having these dreams in New Orleans, and I'm still alive, right?"

She nodded, looking slightly reassured.

"I've got to figure out what it means, and I need your help!" He stopped. "Yours too, Gerde."

The blond girl met his eyes, and he could see the sober determination in her face. "I will do whatever I can, Herr Knight."

Grace freed her hands and forced herself to assume a semblance of calm. "We need to figure out where to begin looking, Gabriel."

He looked thoughtful. "Yeah, well, I've a couple of ideas. I'm pretty sure those symbols I keep seeing mean something. The red cross, and the medallion thing. I'm sure there's some connection with my talisman, somehow. Here, I 'll try and sketch the medal for you." He picked up a notebook and pencil from the bedside table and drew for a minute, then showed it to Grace and Gerde.

"That's what I can remember of it."

Grace took the notebook and looked at the sketch. She studied it for a moment.

"I have some ideas, too, Gabriel. Did you say the red cross was on a white shield?"

"Yeah. St. George's shield. Just like the one in all the paintings."

"And you said you saw men being tortured in a dungeon?"

"Yeah."

Gerde said abruptly, "The red cross on the white field was also the shield of die Tempelritter."

Grace looked across at her with some respect. "That's right, the Knights Templar. How did you know?"

"Wolfgang talked a lot about them. He was interested in medieval history."

Gabriel looked up sharply. "Uncle Wolfgang was interested in the Templars? Weren't they some kind of warrior monks, or something? During the Crusades?"

"Yes, they were. They were accused of heresy and their order was abolished some time in the fourteenth century." Grace stopped and stared at Gabriel's drawing of the seal again. "That looks like a Star of David to me. With a cross in it? I've never heard of anything like it."

"Uh, maybe that was a sword, not a cross. I couldn't see enough to be sure. I'm not very good at drawing..."

"That still doesn't sound like anything I've ever heard of. Looks like I'll be doing some research. What could the connection be: this stuff and the Ritter family? Gerde, didn't you say Wolfgang had worked out a genealogy for the family that goes back to Martin Ritter in the 12th century?"

"Ja, he did, Grace. He believed that the ancestor who built Schloss Ritter moved here from France. He even started a book on the family history: I could find it for you..."

"Yeah, well, it can wait till tomorrow, girls. Whyn't you both go back and try and get some rest. We'll talk about it in the morning."

Gerde murmured agreement and got up to leave. "You're right, Herr Knight. Schlafen Sie Gut, both of you."

Grace stood up and hesitated. "Are you sure you'll be all right, Gabriel?"

"You offerin' to stay and hold my hand, Grace?" he said slyly. He lay back, pillowing his head on his hands, and grinned at her.

The concern on her face instantly evaporated.

"Don't even think about it, Knight!" she snapped, and marched out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

"That's my Grace," Gabriel said to himself. "At least she didn't slam the door that hard this time..."

**********************************

   [1]: http://www.geocities.com/maya_ar/myfic.html#IBDIDN Index



	2. Questions

**[In Brightest Day, In Darkest Night...][1]**   
**[A Gabriel Knight Mystery][1]**

**Chapter 1**

**_"Like one that on a lonesome road_**   
**_Doth walk in fear and dread,_**   
**_And having once turned round walks on,_**   
**_And turns no more his head,_**   
**_Because he knows a frightful fiend_**   
**_Doth close behind him tread."_**   
**_-- Coleridge_**

**********************************

**Interlude**

He felt IT uncoiling again, the red hunger, his personal darkness, his own private piece of hell. Is all this -- slaughter -- really necessary? he asked silently.

_*the strong hunt the weak / it is the way*_

So much pain! his dying heart wept, in anguish at what he had done, what he would do again. Was anything worth that price?

_*i like the pain* _IT chuckled darkly_ *theirs and yours / a price must be paid / you should know that by now*_

_I can't go on!_ that small, dying part of himself cried out.

_*you amuse me little man / after all these years you still surprise me / how remarkable / i do like you*_

Then the darkness rushed up in a bloody tide, closing around him and choking his screams into silence.   
  
  
  


**********************************

**_*Tuesday, 17 June*_**

By the afternoon, Gabriel had a pile of books at his desk, every single volume in his library that had anything to do with the Templar Knights. Grace had spent all morning at her computer, and had then abruptly left 'to look into a couple of things.' Gerde had found the family history that Wolfgang had been working on, and even pulled out some of the town hall records for Grace. She was downstairs now, supervising the plumbers working on the east wing of the castle.

Gabriel was accessing the new computerised database that Grace had been working on, checking for cross references to earlier Schattenjager cases. She had bullied him into buying a PC, and then forced him to learn how to use it. Gabriel surprised himself these days: he could actually say 'microprocessor' without stumbling. And he had to admit his word processing program saved a lot of trouble on rewrites of his novels. But he still kept his typewriter in the study; after all, you never knew.

He added a couple of notes and references to "Case in progress", and then sat back, running his fingers through his hair, reducing it to an even worse mess than it had been to start with. He frowned heavily, trying to piece the information together. "Ah, sh*t, ever since I decided to be Schattenjager, my life has turned into the Twilight Zone," he muttered. "I can't remember the last time I..."

The phone rang. Gabriel cursed and got up to answer it.

"Schloss Ritter," he growled.

"Mr. Knight? Mr. Gabriel Knight?" It was a deep male voice at the other end of the line.

"Yeah, this is Gabriel Knight."

"My name is Michael St.Clair, and I'm calling from France." The caller's voice was pleasant, speaking with a cultured British accent. "I understand we have some interests in common."

"Really? And what interests would those be?"

"I'd prefer to discuss them in person with you, Mr. Knight. I suggest you pay me a visit here, tomorrow if possible."

"What? Is this a joke? I've never even heard of you! Look, Mr. St.Clair or whatever your name is, I'm a busy man, and..."

"I assure you, this is no joke. I assume you read the newspapers."

"Yeah. So?"

"So, you're aware of the 'weekend slasher' murders?"

"Sure, yeah, they found the fourth victim on Sunday, right? I still don't see..."

"You are the new Schattenjager, aren't you, Mr. Knight?"

Gabriel was silent for a long moment.

"Yes," he said warily. "I am. What, exactly, are you suggesting, Mr St.Clair?"

"I understand you're also a fairly successful novelist. Perhaps it might be a good idea for you to research these murders for your next book. It's as good an excuse as any."

"I still don't understand. Why would anyone want a Schattenjager to look into these killings?"

"Unfortunately, it's something I cannot explain over the phone. But please, do come."

"I'm sorry, but you're going to have to be more specific than that. I'm not going to just drop everything and fly to France for nothing more than vague hints..."

"I assure you, it's a matter of life or death: perhaps yours."

"Is that a threat?"

"No. A warning, if you like. Believe me, we're on the same side. You will receive a package today: if the contents help you change your mind, my address and phone number will be in the accompanying letter. I shall look forward to hearing from you." *click*

"Wait a minute...hello? hello? Sonofa..." Gabriel put the phone down, puzzled and a bit annoyed. "This is all I need, mysterious phone calls from complete strangers, right after three sleepless nights..."

He heard someone running up the stairs. A moment later, Grace hurried into the room, carrying a sheaf of papers and her notebook computer.

"Gabriel, I think I know why..."

"Gracie, I just had..."

They both stopped, and started again.

"About the first part..."

"Just before you...'

They stopped again and laughed nervously at each other.

"You go first, Gabriel," Grace said quickly. "Did you find anything in Wolfgang's books?"

"Yeah, quite a lot, about the Templars, anyway." He sat down to consult his notes. "They were a Christian military order, founded in Jerusalem in 1119 A.D, sworn to recover Palestine from the Muslims. The order played an important role in the crusades of the 12th and 13th centuries. They grew very rich and powerful, until the crowned heads of Europe grew insecure about their increasing power. So Philip IV of France, who had borrowed huge amounts from the Order of the Temple, arranged for charges of heresy to be brought against its members in 1307. Many of its leaders were arrested and tortured, to try and get them to confess to blasphemy, and the order was abolished by a Papal order. In 1314, the Grand Master of the Order, Jacques de Molay, was burned at the stake. He died protesting his own and the Order's innocence. Wait a minute, let me find that passage..."

He pulled out a book from the pile on his desk, and opened it.

"Yeah, here it is...

'The following day the two Templars were taken to the Isle of Javiaux, a small island in the River Seine, and were put to death by burning, with a hot, smokeless fire prolonging their agony as their flesh slowly cooked and blackened. Molay insisted that his hands not be bound, waving away the executioner as he approached him, so that he could pray in his final moments. He cried out from the pyre that nemesis would swiftly overtake those who had wrongly condemned the Order - 'God will avenge us', he said. Before he died he cursed both Philip and Pope Clement, summoning both of them to appear before God, the supreme judge, before the year was out. Chillingly, Molay's final words did, in fact, come true. Pope Clement V died only a month later on 20th April, and Philip IV was killed while out hunting on 29th November 1314.' "

He paused. "Spooky, huh? So that seems to explain the torture scenes, and the execution. If that's what I saw. I've been reading up on the trials of the Templars, too." He sat back and cocked an eyebrow at her.

"You know, it looks to me like the whole thing was an elaborate scheme to frame the Order. There was no actual proof of any heresy, other than a few "confessions" extracted under torture; most of which were later retracted by the confessors." Gabriel slanted a look at Grace.

"So that seems to fit. Like Gerde said, the shield I saw was the shield of the Templar Knights: a red Latin cross on a white background. Didn't find anything on the medallion though. And I'll be damned if I can figure out what all this stuff has to do with me!"

"I may have some answers for you, Gabriel. Though I don't see all the connections yet."

"O.K., Grace, go ahead and enlighten me. What would I do without you anyway?"

"You'd still be using your typewriter to write your books, and swearing blue murder about your typos instead of using the Delete button."

"Aw, come on, Gracie, just because I'm not crazy about computers..."

"Can it, Knight. I had to drag you kicking and screaming into computer literacy, and you know it. Anyway, do you want to hear this or not?" She went on before he could reply.

"I looked up the names you heard in those chants -- Mithras, in particular. Take a look at this." She put a set of printouts in his hand.

Gabriel began reading.

'For over three centuries, the rulers of the Roman Empire worshipped the god Mithras. Known throughout Europe and Asia, worship of this god began some 4000 years ago in Persia. The religion spread east through India to China, and reached west throughout the entire length of the Roman empire.

In order to fully understand the religion of Mithraism, many scholars believe it necessary to look to its origins in Persia. According to ancient sources, Ahura-Mazda was the supreme god of goodness, and Ahriman, the ultimate embodiment of evil, the god of darkness. Mithras was created by Ahura Mazda to be the 'Judger of Souls'. He became the divine representative of Ahura Mazda on earth, and was directed to protect the righteous from the demonic forces of Ahriman. According to Persian traditions, the god Mithras was actually incarnated into the human form of the Saviour. Mithras was variously known as the God of Truth, and Lord of Heavenly Light, the Friend of Man, and the Good Shepherd. Men recognized Mithras as 'God of Light', 'Protector of Truth', and 'Enemy of Darkness'.

The major competitor with Christianity during the second and third centuries A.D., not even during the Muslim invasions had Europe come closer to adopting an Eastern religion than when Emperor Diocletian officially recognized Mithras as the protector of the Roman Empire.

When Emperor Constantine made Christianity the official religion of the Roman empire, Mithraism gradually went underground. Far from dying out, however, it survived secretly, despite religious persecution. Various sects whose origins can be traced to Mithraism still exist today.

Mithraism was quite often noted by many historians for its many astonishing similarities to Christianity.

Mithras was "the Light of the World", symbol of truth, justice, and loyalty. He was mediator between heaven and earth and was a member of a Holy Trinity. According to Persian mythology, Mithras was born of a virgin, who was given the title 'Mother of God'. Originally a pastoral God, Mithras represented a system of ethics in which men were encouraged to unify against the forces of evil.

The worshippers of Mithras held strong beliefs in a celestial heaven and an infernal hell. They looked forward to a final day of judgement in which the dead would resurrect, and to a final conflict that would destroy the existing order of all things to bring about the triumph of light over darkness.

Worshippers used caves and grottos as temples wherever possible, or at least gave temples the internal appearance of caves, or of being subterranean, by building steps leading down to the entrance.

Purification through a ritualistic baptism was required of the faithful, who also took part in a ceremony in which they drank wine and ate bread to symbolize the body and blood of the god. Sundays were held sacred, and the birth of the god was celebrated annually on December the 25th. After the earthly mission of this god had been accomplished, he took part in a Last Supper with his companions before ascending to heaven, to forever protect the faithful from above.

In the eyes of the worshippers of Mithras, resistance to evil deeds and immoral actions became just as valued as victory in glorious military exploits. They would fight the powers of evil in accordance with the ideals of Mithraism, in which life was conceived as a struggle against evil spirits.'

Gabriel looked up at Grace and made a face. "Whew. Fascinating. What are you sayin', Grace? That the cave I see in the dreams was some kind of temple of Mithras?"

"You tell me, Gabriel. You're the one with the visions."

"It seems to fit; the cave, the chanting; but what's the connection with the Templars? What's it got to do with my talisman?"

Grace shook her head. "I don't know for sure, yet. I did find a really obscure connection though. You know the other name you mentioned? Asmodeus? Well, that's the name of the 'Guardian spirit' who's supposed to have helped Solomon build his Temple in Jerusalem."

Gabriel snapped his fingers. "Don't tell me, this I know. The full name of the Templars was: the Order of the Knights of the Temple of Solomon. Because that's where they were originally housed, on the site of the Temple, in Jerusalem."

"Yes, and there's more. I called Professor Barclay in the States, and he called me back: apparently, one of the possible linguistic roots of the name Asmodeus, was, get this: Ahura Mazda."

"Whoa, Gracie. That's re-eally way out. Where are you going with this?"

"Gabriel, don't you think it's at least possible that some of the Templars were actually Mithrans? It wouldn't have been difficult for them to keep up appearances: Mithraic rituals were pretty similar to those of the early Catholic church. And it was considered a soldier's religion. I know that at this point, we don't have too many facts. Just a lot of speculations. But if were true, it would explain quite a few things..."

"Huh. Pretty heavy, Grace. That is one major medieval conspiracy theory. If I didn't know better, I'd say you were losing it."

"That's what you said when I was researching Ludwig, remember? And look how that turned out."

"O.K, Gracie, point taken. I promise not to run down your theories again. You gotta admit it though, this one is pretty far-fetched. Anyway, what does it have to do with me?"

"I've been looking up your family's history. Wolfgang, apparently, already came to some conclusions. Do you know that the Ritters just seem to have popped up out of nowhere in this area in 1190? There's absolutely no trace of the name "Ritter" in any earlier genealogical records. There is a record of a Chevalier de la Salle marrying a Margaret von Eschenbach in 1118. She was the last of the von Eschenbachs, who owned the land Schloss Ritter now stands on. After the marriage, they left this part of Germany, and were never heard of here again. Ten years later, a cousin of the founder of the Order of the Knights of the temple of Solomon, Hughues de Payens, visited him in Jerusalem. This cousin's name is recorded as Jean de la Salle, and he was accompanied by his wife, Margaret. Years later, in 1150, a Margaret Ritter, and her son, Jurgen Ritter, showed up with documents granting title to the von Eschenbach land. They didn't stick around for long, though. However, Martin Ritter appeared here in 1223, and started building Schloss Ritter, and Rittersberg came up around it. And you do know that the word 'Ritter' means the same as the French 'Chevalier', which means..."

"Which means 'Knight'. I know, Gracie."

"I also checked on the "Kreuzritters"; the Crusader Knights in your family. There were at least two: Conrad Ritter and Johann Ritter. Conrad was a Templar. He was in Palestine until 1291."

There was a knock at the door, startling both of them.

"Herr Knight? It's Gerde." She entered the study, carrying a package. "This just came in the mail. From France."

"A package? Oh, hey, yeah, that was what the guy on the phone said..."

"What guy on the phone?" Grace asked.

"I was just about to tell you when you came in. Some guy called Michael St.Clair, called from France. Weird. He wants me to visit him, says it's a 'matter of life or death'."

"Michael St.Clair? The painter?" Grace looked surprised and slightly awed.

"You've heard of this guy?"

"Of course I've heard of him! Where do you live, Gabriel, under a rock? He's only one of the most famous artists in Europe, that's all."

"Yeah, well, I wouldn't know a Renoir from a Picasso, Gracie. My father was the painter, remember? My idea of art is more like..." he remembered Gerde was with them, and stopped. He cleared his throat and changed the subject. "Let's see what this St.Clair guy has sent me, huh?"

He opened the package, which contained a letter and a notebook. Gabriel opened the notebook, and nearly dropped it in shock. Grace saw his stunned expression and moved around next to him to look at the notebook. It was a sketchbook. And the first page contained a beautifully executed water colour of a gold pendant on a chain. Round in shape, the pendant had engravings on it. An embossed circle surrounded a Star of David, with a cross-hilted sword in the centre. Along the edge of the circle, Grace could clearly make out the words "Si tatlia jungere possis sit tibi scire posse." Beneath the pendant, a scroll had been drawn, bearing the words "Nil nisi clavis deest".

"That's it! That's the medallion I saw in my dream!" Gabriel exclaimed. "How...' he turned the page and stopped again. "What the.."

It was a sketch, as beautifully drawn as the first, of the Ritter talisman. Accurate to the smallest detail.

Gabriel was looking grim by now, as he continued to look through the pages. The next page contained a sketch of a stained glass window. It seemed to depict a man on horseback, holding a golden medallion towards the sun. The rider wore a white tunic emblazoned with a red cross.

The next drawing showed another stained glass window, a familiar one: St. George, slaying the dragon with a flaming sword. He carried a white shield bearing a red latin cross. And on his chest was a gold medallion...

There were no other drawings in the book. Gabriel closed the book and put it slowly down on the desk.

Grace picked up the sketch book and looked at the first page. "Si tatlia jungere possis sit tibi scire posse -- hmm, let's see, that means -- If you can comprehend these things, you know enough' -- and the scroll says -- 'Nothing is wanting but the key' ", she said, looking thoughtful. "Maybe Michael St.Clair has the key to this mystery, Gabriel. What did he say to you on the phone?"

Gabriel scowled. "Not a whole helluva lot. Very cryptic guy, this Michael St.Clair. Let's see what other little surprises he's sent me, shall we?" he opened the letter and a small newspaper clipping slipped out. It was from the English edition of 'Le Monde'.

**Slasher claims fourth victim**   
- Paris, 15 June.

The little town of Gisors in Val d'Oise is the center of horrified public attention as the authorities continue their search for the mysterious 'weekend slasher' who has claimed four lives in a bloody spree. The latest victim, well known pianist Vladimir Tornenkov, was the fourth in less than a month. Tornenkov had last been seen at a dinner party with a select group of friends the previous evening. It is estimated that the murder occurred around midnight. It is not clear why he had ventured outside the village at such a late hour.

All four bodies were discovered in the early hours of the morning just outside the village. The police have refused to confirm or deny rumours that the victims' bodies were found in horribly mutilated conditions. One eye witness, who wishes to remain anonymous, claims that he saw the heart of one of the victims had been cut out of the chest, and the face had been slashed several times.

Some sources claim that these are the latest in a series of cult related murders that have occurred across Europe over the last year. However, Police Commissioner Jean Claud Dernaud says "Nothing has been discovered to justify linking the murders to any particular group. At the moment, we are proceeding with our investigations on the basis of the evidence found at the crime scenes. Until all the evidence has been analysed, I advise against speculations of this nature."

Mayor Danielle Grellier says that tourism in the area has dropped by 95% since the second murder. The village of Gisors is a normally a popular tourist stop-over, especially since the late 1960s. Speculations that the lost treasure of the Templars may be buried somewhere in the area have drawn enthusiasts and treasure hunters from around the globe. The authorities advise all residents and visitors to remain indoors after dark, and not to venture out alone to any areas outside the main thouroughfares.'

"Great. Another series of brutal murders. That was all I was missing. And what other good news does Mr.St.Clair have for me, hmmm?" He read the letter aloud.

"Dear Mr.Knight,

We have never met, but our families are linked by an ancient tradition that has been nearly forgotten in recent years. Over the the last few days, it has been made clear that the revival of the link between the Ritters and the St.Clairs is vital. It may be our our only hope: for continued sanity, even survival. I am unable to disclose any details to you except in person: I do urge you to visit me immediately at my ancestral home here in Gisors. I hope the enclosed will serve to convince you to come. You may call me at any time at the following phone number..."

Gabriel looked up.

"Think I'd better call this guy."

Grace sat up."So, we're going to France, huh?"

"Whoa, what do you mean, we? You're not coming along, Grace. This sh*t sounds like it could be really dangerous, and I don't want you getting involved!"

"In case it's escaped your attention, Knight, I'm already involved! And just what makes you think you're any better equipped to face this than I am? You're not going back to your stupid 'I'm a man' crap again, are you?" Grace's eyes narrowed ominously.

"Oh now, Grace, don't let's start that again! I just don't want you getting hurt, that's all!"

"Yeah, well, then how come I'm the one who always has to pull your fat out of the fire, Mr. Knight? Or have you forgotten who saved your Schattenjager butt the last time?"

I'd maybe appreciate it more if you didn't gloat over it so much! he thought to himself, but didn't say it. If you want to win this argument, Knight, you're gonna have to be a little more subtle than that...

"Gee, Gracie, you sure are beautiful when you're mad," Gabriel drawled infuriatingly.

Grace froze, too angry to speak. She turned her back on him and took a few steps away. "Don't-you-dare-patronise-me, you jerk," she gritted out from between clenched teeth.

"Look, Grace, why don't you just stay with Gerde, and hold the fort here, and if I need you, I'll call. How's that? I mean, you know I need you to look up some more stuff, and this research is more your speed anyway," he said, cajolingly. He stepped forward and put a hand on her shoulder. "I can handle the leg work by myself, for now..."

"Oh yeah?" Grace said, her voice soft and dangerous.

The next second, Gabriel found himself flying through the air, to land heavily about four feet away, on the floor, hard.

"Handle that!" she snapped, and stormed out of the room.

"What did I say?" Gabriel enquired, turning a bewildered face to Gerde.

"You treated her very badly, Herr Knight," Gerde said disapprovingly. "I must say I think you got less than you deserved." She turned around and walked out of the room.

Gabriel, alone in the study, stared after her with chagrin writ large on his face. Now they were ganging up on him! Wincing, he pulled himself slowly to his feet, and limped carefully to his chair. Was Gerde right? Had he treated Grace badly? Sh*t, all he was trying to do was keep her out of danger, wasn't he? Was that so wrong? Here they were, both taking sides against him. Was it some kind of weird woman thing?

He worked himself up into a satisfying state of righteous indignation. He hadn't done a thing to deserve this kind of treatment! he told himself. Grace was just taking this too seriously. Trouble was, she took everything too seriously. Hardly ever smiled, or laughed. Except when she was being sarcastic or trying to give him a hard time. Which she did most of the time anyway, he thought sourly. What was he supposed to do, forget that she was a woman? And a damned attractive one at that. It didn't help that she'd never let him get within arms' reach of her. All the time they'd known each other, they'd never dated. He wasn't the one who'd been acting distant and nose-in-the-air!

Then a vision of Grace's face as she turned away stopped him short, right in the middle of his smug tirade. A twinge of conscience assailed him. Well, maybe he'd been a little flippant... "Gee, Grace, you're beautiful when you're mad." He winced. OK, so he'd been more than just a little flippant... But he couldn't get anything done in France if he had to take care of Grace and bail her out of trouble the whole time...

Who're you kidding, Knight? he asked himself. Mostly it's the other way around! Take care of Grace? Then why were you the one who ended up on the floor?

The whole scene replayed itself in his mind. He winced as he heard himself telling her that he'd call her if he needed to. He didn't usually act like a chauvinist idiot anymore. Oh sure, things had been different when he had first hired Grace, but he'd grown up a bit since then. Especially after the Von Glower affair... though he sure hadn't been acting like it in the last few minutes. Still, he didn't deserve the snide way she enjoyed putting him down! Well, maybe he did. Come to think of it, these days, she only did it when he was behaving like a jerk...

Face it, Knight, he thought. You really blew it. Maybe it's time to try and make it up to her, make a fresh start. If she'll let you...! But first, to call this St.Clair guy...

Twenty minutes later, he found Grace sitting in the garden, looking out across the valley. Her back was stiff, as though she were holding her temper in with great difficulty. She had to have heard him coming, but she paid no attention.

Apologize, Knight, Gabriel said to himself. Tell her that you were an insensitive moron. Get it over with.

"Grace?" he said hesitantly.

She didn't turn around to look at him. "What do you want, Gabriel?" she asked, her voice flat and cold.

"I'm sorry, Grace. I'm an idiot. I admit it. I was acting like a jerk."

"Yes, you were."

He let out his breath in a sigh. "I'm really sorry, Grace. Believe me, I've called myself every name in the book, and then some. You know I need you, Grace. I couldn't do without your help. It's just that..."

She turned around to look at him, and he saw the pinched, unhappy expression on her face. He felt even worse about himself.

"I thought we were friends, Gabriel. You promised not to act this way again. Don't go back to school, Grace. We're partners. That's what you said. Then how come you keep treating me like some sort of juvenile research machine? Sometimes I think you don't see me as a person at all!"

He rubbed at his hair, and then went to sit down carefully on the bench next to her. "I do see you as a person, Grace. You're very important to me. I know I can be really self-centred some of the time...Hell, most of the time! I don't know why you put up with me. But I'm not as dumb as I look, Gracie. I do know I couldn't do without you." He stopped and looked uncomfortably down at the ground.

"It's this Schattenjager thing, Grace. It's still so new, I... Each time I have one of these nightmares, it throws me off balance. Scares the hell outta me. And I keep thinking I have to protect you, keep you away from all the sh*t that seems to happen around me. I'll never forget seeing you lying in that hounfour in New Orleans. I felt so damned guilty about getting you into that mess! Sometimes I think you'd be so much better off back at school getting that Ph.D..."

"Gabriel, I do have a choice, you know," Grace said, in a gentler tone. "I chose to get involved with your problems. If you respect me as a person, you have to respect my right to make my own decisions."

"Yeah, I know. But call me a chauvinist pig, Grace, I still don't like it when you put yourself in harm's way." He held up his hands to forestall her retort. "Yeah, yeah, I know, that doesn't make me right. That's why I told St.Clair to expect the both of us tomorrow."

Grace's face lighted up. "Gabriel! Really?"

"Really. He was a little surprised, but I told him I never go anywhere without you."

She eyed him suspiciously. "Knowing you, that's not all of it."

"We-elll, he did ask about how many rooms we'd need, so I told him we'd share the same one." He ducked the punch she aimed at him. "Just kidding, Grace. Separate bedrooms! I told him separate bedrooms!"

"Hah! Grow up, Knight!" She couldn't hide her smile, though.

"You're not mad at me anymore?"

"I forgive you. For now. Maybe you're not as much of a pig as I thought."

"Great! Does that mean you might reconsider that bedroom thing too?"

"Don't push your luck, Knight."

**********************************

  


   [1]: http://www.geocities.com/maya_ar/myfic.html#IBDIDN Index



	3. History

**[In Brightest Day, In Darkest Night...][1]**   
**[A Gabriel Knight Mystery][1]**

**Chapter 2**

**_"A thousand fantasies_**   
**_Begin to throng into my memory_**   
**_Of calling shapes, and beck'ning shadows dire,_**   
**_And airy tongues that syllable men's names_**   
**_On sands and desert wildernesses."_**   
**_-- Milton_**

**********************************

**_*Wednesday, 18 June*_**

Gabriel turned to Grace, who was in the aisle seat, typing away at her notebook computer. "Gracie, we'll be landing soon. Why don't you put that thing away, and we'll talk?"

She shot a momentarily irritated look at him, then sighed, and obliged him. "O.K. What do you want to talk about?"

"This St. Clair guy. You said you'd heard of him."

"Uh-huh. Michael St. Clair is considered one of the most brilliant and successful landscape artists in the world today. I used to copy his work in my art classes."

"A painter. Now what would a painter know about the Schattenjagers? And why would he be interested in serial killings in France?"

"I wondered the same thing, so I looked him up. Michael St. Clair is in his early thirties, single, has a home near Gisors, a farmhouse which has been in his family for several generations. His father was the late General St.Clair, French army, retired; his mother was a Scot, maiden name Rosalyn Church, and Michael himself had an expensive public school education in England. He spends most of time in Spain, painting. His parents died, a couple of years ago, within a few days of each other. Michael spends very little time in France."

"Still doesn't explain a damn thing to me, Gracie."

"Well, it didn't to me either. So I looked deeper into the St.Clair family. They've been associated with Gisors for a very long time. As far back as I can trace them. And Gisors is a well known Templar site. Several Templars, including Jacques de Molay, were held imprisoned in their castle at Gisors by order of Philip IV. There are rumours about the existence of a vast treasure somewhere in the castle grounds, but nothing's ever been found. There were some abortive attempts at excavating at the Chateau, for the Templar treasure, but each time, the excavation mysteriously fizzled into nothing. And this town is where, as we know, all the murders are happening. Coincidence?" She continued, eyes narrowed.

"Fact: St. Clair is a very prominent name in Templar history. There's even a Scots branch of the family, and the Order survived in Scotland after the Papal ban. Some believe a troop of Templars fought on the Scottish side at Bannockburn." Grace was wearing what Gabriel thought of as her "research mode expression".

"Which reminds me. I asked Gerde to find Wolfgang's research notes on the Templars. There are so many wild theories about them; I'd like to see what Wolfgang thought. She'll forward his notes to us in France when she does find them. And then there's this other little thing. The patron saint of the St.Clair family? Who else? St.George."

Gabriel looked thoughtful. "That's quite a few convenient coincidences, huh? You may be on to something here, Gracie. But this is mostly ancient history; I was hoping for something a little more current."

Grace sighed. "The key to the present is often in the past, Gabriel. I couldn't find too much about Michael St. Clair himself; he's apparently quite a private person, keeps to himself. Very rich, or so I hear. But then, his family's fairly well off, and his work sells, so there's nothing mysterious about that."

The 'fasten seatbelts' light came on, and the captain announced that they would be landing shortly, interrupting whatever Gabriel had been about to say.

A short while later, Gabriel and Grace were walking out into the arrival lounge at Paris. A tall, dark haired man approached them.

"Mr. Knight?" he enquired, holding out his hand.

"Yeah, and you must be Michael St. Clair," Gabriel said, taking the proferred hand. He assessed the man in front of him. Tall, fit, good looking, brown hair and brown eyes. Pleasant voice, Brit accent. "Uh, this is my associate, Grace Nakimura."

Grace smiled warmly, extending her hand. "It's a pleasure meeting you, Mr. St.Clair. I'm a great admirer of your work."

St.Clair took the hand and raised it to his lips in continental fashion. "The pleasure is mine, Ms. Nakimura. And please, call me Michael."

"All right. And I'm Grace, by the way." They stayed that way for a moment, smiling at each other, until Gabriel decided to interrupt.

"Fine. And I'm Gabriel. Now that we've got that out of the way, what do we do now?"

"This way," Michael said. "We'll drive down to my home, and I can answer your questions on the way."

A half hour later, Gabriel was sitting, silent and irritated, in the back seat of the car, listening to Grace and Michael in animated conversation about art and history. Answer my questions, huh? he repeated to himself.

There was a temporary break in the flow of discussion. He took advantage of the lull to clear his throat. "So, Michael, tell me how you got to hear about the Schattenjagers."

The painter shot him an amused look in the rear view mirror. "My family has always known of the Schattenjagers, Gabriel. You might say we're in a similar line of business."

"And that means what, exactly?"

"Not to put too fine a point on it, we're all, in a sense, crusaders for good. Your family has been playing witch hunter for centuries, and mine... well, let's just say that mine has a more specific job. We're both hunters, if that's the answer you want."

"Not really. I don't understand how you say your family has known about mine for so long; obviously the knowledge doesn't extend both ways. Fill in the gaps for me, would you?"

Michael shrugged. "Actually the connection goes back quite a long way, to the 12th century and even before. But it'll be easier for me to explain when we're home. There are some things you should see, and someone you'll meet."

"Great. Well, then maybe you can tell me about the murders. What's so important about these particular killings?"

"Have you ever heard of the Cult of the Serpent?"

Gabriel and Grace both sat up sharply. "I ran across something like that back in New Orleans..." Gabriel said.

"No, I'm not talking about the Voodoo cult of Damballah. Though they are related, in a way. The particular lot you wrote about in your book were a break-away group, but they were still Voudoun. That's more of an established religion than a secret cult. What I'm referring to is a sect that has existed secretly for centuries, a sort of underground dark magic society. They have an evil reputation, human sacrifice, demon worship, and worse."

"And you're saying there's a connection with these murders?"

"Well, yes. You see, my family has encountered similar series of murders before. There's always a set pattern to the killings. A specific purpose. And I believe that if these killings are not stopped in time, they will lead to something much worse."

"I don't get it. If your family has been taking care of this sort of thing for centuries, as you claim, why do you need me? Why not just do your 'crusader for right' thing by yourself? Or are you out of your depth this time?"

"Gabriel!" Grace exclaimed, embarrassed by the rudeness.

"No, it's all right, Grace, that's a fair question." Michael seemed undisturbed by either the bluntness or the implication. "It's true, I do need your help on this one. Though it's as much for your sake as mine. I've seen some things... Tell me, what was it that convinced you to come?"

The question brought Gabriel up short. "The drawings, you sent me, the first one: I saw the medallion thing in a dream. And... there aren't all that many people outside of Rittersberg who've seen the Ritter Talisman." He put up a hand to his chest to touch the Talisman that hung there, under his t-shirt.

"The medallion you saw in the sketch, and in your dream -- it was this one, wasn't it?" Michael asked, drawing something from a chain around his own neck. He handed it to Gabriel.

It was the original of the object Gabriel had seen. It was heavy, about the same size as the Ritter talisman, old gold, with clearly visible markings on it. Gabriel turned it over. On the reverse was a cross, and the words "Mithrae Invicto." He passed it on to Grace, who examined it in her turn.

"That's the one," he admitted slowly. "It that your family talisman?"

Grace repeated aloud "Mithrae Invicto - To Mithras, the Unconquered. I knew there had to be a connection! What is this artifact?"

"Among other things, it's known as the Seal of Solomon. And what you refer to as the Ritter talisman, is known to my family as the Key of St. George."

"'Nothing is wanting but the Key!'" Gabriel and Grace exclaimed together, quoting the inscription they had seen in Michael's drawing of the Seal. "But the key to what?" Gabriel asked.

"Good question. We're almost home, so I'll be able to show you shortly." Michael turned into an arched gate. A sign at the entrance announced, simply, 'St.Clair'. The building in front of them was an old fashioned farmhouse, and the car pulled into a garage that had obviously been modified from a barn.

Walking into the entrance hall, Gabriel noticed that the place was full of paintings. They were everywhere, lining the short passage into the main hall, on every vertical surface. "Did you paint all of this stuff?" he asked Michael, stopping to stare at a rendering of St.George slaying the Dragon.

"No, many of these paintings have been part of the family collection for years. Most of my own paintings are in my studio, in the back. The bedrooms are upstairs." He walked up the wooden stairway to the rear.

"I've put you in adjacent rooms," Michael said, gesturing at two doors on the right.

Gabriel noticed two doors on the opposite side of the passage. "Yours?" he asked, pointing.

"Yes, the last one is my room. The other one is a guest room. You'll meet the occupant soon. I'll see you downstairs when you're ready."

**********************************

A short while later, Grace walked down into the main hall, and wandered around, looking at the paintings. She stopped in front of a large canvas above the fireplace. "'Les Bergers d'Arcadie' -- The Shepherds of Arcadia. Hmm. Isn't that a painting by Poussin?" she wondered aloud.

"Yes, this one's a copy. The original is much smaller," Michael said from behind her. He came to stand beside her, while she gazed intently at the canvas.

Gabriel walked in, joining the two in front of the fireplace. "So, you were going to show us something, right?"

Before Michael could respond, the front door opened, and an elderly man walked in. "Ah, just the man! Gabriel, Grace, I would like you to meet Monsieur Jean Gerard -- Father Jean, I call him."

The new comer was a slender old man, in his seventies at least, but with an air of vigour and health about him. His blue eyes were wise and penetrating, looking out at the world from a nest of laugh lines. He looked like a man who had seen a great deal of life, good and bad, and had come out of it enriched. Gabriel felt an immediate sense of kinship, trust; an odd sensation, as though he had known this man for a long time.

Michael walked up to the old man, embracing him warmly. "Father, meet Gabriel Knight of Rittersberg, and this is Grace Nakimura."

Jean Gerard shook their hands, looking at Gabriel with an appraising expression. "So, you would be Wolfgang Ritter's grand nephew, am I correct?" His English was excellent, if accented.

"You knew Uncle Wolfgang?" Gabriel asked. That was it! This man was oddly reminiscent of the previous Schattenjager. He radiated the same aura of wisdom and compassion, though without the odd, almost palpable tiredness that had surrounded Wolfgang.

"We met once, long ago. He was a remarkable man," Gerard said. "A man of great insight."

Grace had been frowning, trying to recall something. Her face suddenly lit up. "You're the Angel of Dieppe! Right? The man who smuggled all those Jews out of France during the Nazi occupation?"

"It was a long time ago, my dear. Many others did deeds of great heroism at the time; not all received the recognition they were due."

Gabriel whistled. "But you saved hundreds of lives! You spent some time in a Nazi prison, right? I read something about that..."

"Some time, yes. Fortunately for me, the Allies liberated Paris shortly afterward. As I said, it was a long time ago," Gerard shrugged.

Michael smiled wryly. "Father Jean doesn't like talking about himself. But he does, fortunately, talk about the questions you wanted answered. Father, I was just about to explain about the Key of St.George when you arrived."

Gerard nodded, as though it were something he had been expecting. "Shall we sit down? At my age, my joints won't permit me to stand for long. This will take a while."

They all seated themselves facing the ornate fireplace. Gabriel noticed with some annoyance that Michael sat down next to Grace on the couch. Something about that guy bothers me! he thought. Then Gerard's words brought his focus back to the problem at hand.

"I think I had better start at the beginning. It's a story that will be familiar to you."

He paused. "I won't say once upon a time, but it was certainly a long time ago: a certain kingdom was terrorised by the power of a Great Serpent. It was a dreadful beast, vicious and utterly evil. At first, it exacted tribute, gold, goods, livestock; then its tyrannies grew far worse. It demanded human sacrifices, young men, women, even children. The people lived in mortal terror of the horrific demands that might next be made. One fateful day, the virtuous and beautiful Sabra, princess of that land, was taken by the servants of the Serpent, to be the next sacrifice."

"But all was not lost. At the last minute, a knight in shining armour, a Hero, arrived. With his mystic sword Ascalon, he fought his way past the Serpent's minions, and at last, confronted the source of the evil: the Serpent himself. He dealt the Beast a mighty blow with his great sword, defeating it, and rescuing the fair maiden."

"And thus was born the Legend of St.George." Father Jean smiled ruefully. "But behind the legend was the story of a man. A brave man, a true hero, but above all, a man of conscience. There was far more to his life than the Legend that the world remembers. For instance, Sabra, the princess he had rescued, was both beautiful and grateful to the man who had saved her and her people. They were young, they fell in love and married."

"You see, the man behind the myth was a Roman citizen, a soldier by profession. At the time these things happened, Diocletian ruled over the mighty Roman Empire. George was no ordinary hero. His sword, the invincible Ascalon, had been given to him in token of his prowess as the sworn Champion of the Lord of Light, whom the Romans called Mithras. George was the Courier of the Sun, the God's fighting arm. The Emperor, Diocletian, himself a Mithran, favoured George, accepting him as a trusted counsellor."

"But things would change. First and foremost a politician, Diocletian sought to consolidate his power over the Empire absolutely. In 302 A.D., he began persecuting followers of other religions, including Christians, under the pretence of defending Mithraism. George, horrified at this perversion of faith, resigned from his position, and began secretly aiding the Christians to escape."

"Knowing the ruthless nature of the Emperor, he smuggled his wife and young son, under an assumed name, back into Palestine. Then he publicly denounced Diocletian, saying that Mithras did not require the torture and murder of innocents in his name. He even defended the Christian faith, saying that Christ was another face of the Saviour incarnated on earth to guide men. Predictably, Diocletian had George arrested, and finally beheaded for heresy. Ironic, for the next Emperor, Constantine, adopted Christianity, and exalted George's memory. Later, the Christian church would declare him a Saint."

Grace, engrossed in the tale, asked, "What happened to George's wife and son?"

Gerard shot a kindly but amused look at her. "Patience. I was just coming to that."

Gabriel hid a smile. Maybe that was what made Gracie such a good researcher: that ferocious curiosity about everything. A trait he himself had in common with her, though history didn't really interest him that much.

Gerard took up the tale again. "George's family settled down in Palestine, under a different name. George had left them an important legacy. Until the time came, it must remain hidden. They chose to hide it in the midst of another Legend."

"Jerusalem is an ancient city, a place of power. It is no wonder that it is considered a holy place by people of many faiths. There were many secrets hidden in the catacombs beneath the city. Inside the Temple of Solomon lay a great mystery. Few men knew what lay beneath the time-worn flagstones in the Holy of Holies. Many believed the Ark of the Covenant lay there. Others said the treasure of the Temple had been stolen by Egyptians who had invaded the city a thousand years before Christ."

"Until the sixth century, that was the situation. During the rule of Emperor Justinian, forces began to move. Rumours started circulating that certain relics, of great religious significance, were hidden somewhere in Jerusalem. The nature of these relics was not clear: some said it was the True Cross, on which Christ had been crucified; others said it was the Chalice from the Last Supper. Still others claimed it was the spear used to pierce the side of Christ, while he was on the Cross. The Empress Theodora, a brilliant but depraved woman, urged her husband to find this relic, whatever it was. They believed that the possessor would gain access to enormous power."

Gerard drew a deep breath. "We do not know exactly what transpired, but the secret of St.George's legacy was almost betrayed to Theodora. By one of his direct descendants. It was saved, but barely. The would-be traitor committed suicide, leaving his confession in the hands of his younger brother, John. It was John who decided that the secret must never again be entrusted to any one man."

"Remember, these were turbulent times. The Byzantine Empire was a hotbed of corruption and intrigue; Justinian was persecuting the "enemies of Christ", as he put it; by which he meant anyone who was not a Christian. Nonetheless, Mithraism still flourished in secret. Many of the senior figures in the army, for instance, were Mithrans. Still, John could not trust just anyone with his legacy; finally, he chose a young soldier, his friend, and fellow Mithran: while John had risen to the position of Courier of the Sun, his friend was somewhat lower than he on the seven-runged ladder: a Lion of Mithras."

"Uh, just a minute, sir: you lost me there," Gabriel interrupted. "What ladder? What's a 'Lion of Mithras'?"

"I'm sorry, I should have explained: you see, in the brotherhood of Mithras, there are seven ranks, from the lowest, the Raven, to the highest, the Father."

"Brotherhood? You mean, like monks?"

"Not quite in the sense you mean. Chastity was honoured, but not celibacy, as in the case of the Christian monastic orders... But as I was saying, there were seven steps on the hierarchy: the Lion is the fourth. Quite senior, actually; only one rank intervened between Lion and Courier of the Sun. The Courier was second only to the Father. He was Mithras' own Champion."

"Like St.George?"

"Yes," smiled Gerard, "like St.George. John chose this young Lion to share the legacy he himself had inherited. He gave him half of what would be required to retrieve and use the secret; while he himself kept the other half. Only by using both, could anyone hope to recover St.George's Prize."

"And one of these 'halves' wouldn't by any chance happen to be my Talisman, would it?" Gabriel raised a questioning eyebrow.

"Correct. It is in fact, the Key of St.George. The other half, as you will no doubt have guessed, hangs around Michael's neck at this very moment."

"You want me to help you find this secret, whatever it is, right? I don't know... if St.George wanted it saved for whatever reason, shouldn't we just leave it where it is? Beneath the Temple of Solomon, or wherever?" Gabriel had been growing increasingly nervous as this story unfolded. He was getting a bad feeling about this...

Michael spoke. "St.George's Treasure is not in Jerusalem any more. And I very much fear that the time for it to emerge has indeed arrived. There are forces at work, forces that threaten the very foundation of all that your ancestors and mine have fought for." He locked eyes with Gabriel, and there was no doubt that he was in deadly earnest. "Just hear Father Jean out."

Father Jean continued. "Michael is right, there is more to this story. Once the rumours of a secret treasure began, they never died out. Over the years, many changes occured. The first Crusade was the beginning of a huge upheaval. All over Europe, rumours of a 'Holy Grail' drove adventurers and mystics on quests; for the first time, rumours associated the Grail with St.George. And with the Temple. Its secret was at risk. Something had to be done. Part of the answer lay in the founding of the Templar Order. Now, a highly trained and dedicated force of soldiers would devote themselves to guarding the Temple. No outsider would penetrate the secret that lay below it. And no outsider knew that the Order was far more than it seemed."

"I knew it!" Grace exclaimed excitedly."The Templars were Mithrans!"

"Not all of them," Father Jean said mildly, "Though it is true that at least half of the founding members of the Order, were. And there remained a small core of Mithrans in the midst of the Order throughout its history. Those who rose to the level of Grand Master were all Mithrans."

"But they were a Catholic priesthood for Ch.. for heaven's sake! Wasn't that sort of... sacrilege?" Gabriel, who had never thought of himself as particularly religious, was nonetheless vaguely disturbed.

"Mithras does not seem to mind," Father Jean commented humourously. "Somehow, I don't think God shares our petty little misgivings over what name we call Him. In any case, even St.George himself said that Christ was another face of the Lord of Light. There was no real conflict of faith; most of the tenets of the two religions are the same. But I digress", he waved a deprecating hand, "To return to the story. Shortly after the founding of the Order, a Norman knight, Jean de la Salle, keeper of the Key of St.George, came to Jerusalem. Conveniently enough, the Chevalier de la Salle's cousin, Hughues de Payens, was one of the founders of the Order of the Temple. However, it was not de Payens he had come to meet."

The old man stopped. "Michael? Perhaps you should tell the rest of it."

Michael shifted in his seat, turning to face Gabriel. "Jean de la Salle met the man who was then the bearer of the Seal: his name was Geoffrey. The two men, who became close friends, renewed their oaths to protect the heritage of St.George; more than that, they would share his mission, to fight darkness in all it's forms, and they would pass on their oaths to their descendants. In the hands of the righteous, the Key and the Seal are powerful weapons. To protect their secret, they would separate: Jean de la Salle would disappear; he would found a new family and tradition in the mountains of distant Bavaria, the land of his wife's people. Geoffrey's family would continue to safeguard the Secret itself. Without the Key, not even his descendants could hope to retrieve the Treasure itself. The secret was safe. Or so they hoped. As the Crusades continued, Jerusalem's eventual fall to the Moslems became inevitable. It was clear that the Treasure had to be moved."

"In 1236, Johann Ritter, a Crusader Knight, came to Jerusalem, bringing with him something passed on to him by his father, Martin. The Key. From the Holy Land, he sailed to France with a small party of Templars; they carried the Treasure from beneath the Temple with them. Once in France, it was hidden underground, in a shrine of Mithras, and sealed off. As before, without the use of both the Seal and the Key, no one would be able to retrieve it. Less than eight years later, Jerusalem fell. The Christian kingdom in Palestine would last less than half a century longer."

"Poor Templars." Michael sighed. "As the original purpose of the Order of the Knights of the Temple of Solomon was lost, feeling against the Templars was growing. Envy, distrust, hate; you see, they were a contradiction in terms. Monks of War. Lions in battle, lambs in peace. Without the Crusades to justify them, they were lost souls. In Europe, they were bankers and soldiers, scientists and preachers, arrogant guardians of a heritage that everyone believed they had already lost. It did not help that they prospered even in exile from the Holy Land. What was their secret? What did they guard so zealously?"

"All questions that Philip the Fair of France asked himself. Already the most powerful ruler in Europe, Philip dreamed of ruling the world. Convinced by his advisor, Guillaume de Nogaret, that the Templars possessed a secret that would render the bearer invincible, he sought to join the Order as an honorary member. Rebuffed, his anger and greed overcame his discretion. He persuaded Pope Clement, his puppet, to issue an order for the Templars' arrest on charges of heresy. The Order had seen it coming for some time. But even in exile, the Templars had not lost their purpose. Their secret must be safeguarded at any cost. Too late, they realized their prominence was a double-edged sword. Now the price would be paid. Plans were made. A few would sacrifice themselves for the good of the many."

"Even as Templars scattered all over Europe, the leaders of the Order maintained a facade of complete ignorance. They agreed that Philip's attention would have to be distracted from the true Secret, and this could best be done by dazzling him with gold. The Order's fabulous wealth would be sacrificed; some Templars must also walk into the trap, to foster the belief that the Order was indeed dead."

"And that's what happened. Hundreds of Knights were arrested on that October morning in 1307. Not one, not a single one, of these iron men, these monks of war, who surely knew that charges of heresy meant trial by torture, even bothered to resist arrest. The King's bailiffs were given the run of the Templar castles. All the great storehouses of gold were meekly surrendered, without a single blow struck in their defence. Under excruciating torture, most of the Templars confessed to all kinds of bizarre heresies. They confessed to anything and everything they were accused of. Everything but the truth, that is."

Michael's voice was thick with sorrow. "Philip believed he had broken the Templars. He had most of their gold, but he had not found their mystic secret, whatever it was. No matter, he said to himself, if there was ever such a secret, none of these men know it. Not even the worst torments have drawn anything about this so-called mystery out of them. Well then, I'll grind them into the dust and forget about them forever."

"As the final nail in the Templar's coffin, Jacques de Molay, last Grand Master of the Order, who had endured horrific ordeals in prison, was to make a public admission of the iniquities of the Order. But the old man had one final surprise in store for the King. By now aware that his fellow Templars were safe, scattered to the four corners, he publicly retracted his confession. The Order is innocent, he declared. I am not guilty of heresy, neither are my brothers, and Philip is a thieving villain. In his rage and humiliation, Philip had him burned at the stake. Dying, de Molay cursed his tormentors. Nemesis will overtake you..."

"God will avenge us," Gabriel finished for him. His eyes, too, were now haunted with the past.

Michael threw him a thoughtful glance. "Yes."

"And I guess you could say that God did avenge them," Gabriel said. "But what they died for..."

"Is safe. You are living proof of that. As am I."

Grace let out the breath she had been holding for almost a minute. "So that's how the Schattenjagers started out. I always wondered... But Michael, what about your family -- how exactly do the St.Clairs fit in?"

It was Gerard who answered. "But Grace, surely the story you have heard tells you that? Michael is the last surviving descendant of St.George himself. The hereditary keeper of the Seal. The Champion of Light."

A thousand questions hung in the air, but none were uttered. The silence was deafening.

**********************************

Gabriel stared silently up at the panelled ceiling above his bed. Memories of the evening he had just passed swirled through his head, stirring doubts and fears in their wake. Why was it that every time he found some answers, new questions always popped up like neon signs in front of him? Recalling the stunned silence after Father Jean had made that incredible statement, the whole scene replayed itself for him...

After a long moment, Gabriel recovered his voice. "What?" he asked quietly, with suppressed violence. "You're asking me to believe this? That Michael is the heir -- the direct descendant -- of St.George himself?"

"It is the truth," the old man shrugged.

Grace shifted her gaze between Gerard and Michael, unsure of her ground. She looked at Gabriel and saw the dawning incredulous anger in his eyes. She herself was feeling torn: her rational, practical side was telling her that this was impossible, unreal! But her instincts were screaming that it was nothing less than the truth.

Gabriel looked at Michael, forcing his words out around his anger. "What proof do you have that you are who you say?"

The answer was calm, accompanied by a steadfast look that could not be avoided. "None. I have no documents, no genealogy that will prove my claim." His eyes hardened, holding Gabriel's unrelentingly. "But you know. You know that I am who I say. Don't you, Hunter of Shadows?" The fierce eyes would not be turned aside, calling up what lay hidden inside Gabriel's soul; burning through the layers of his mind. And, incredibly, the truth was there. It would not be denied. It was Gabriel's gaze that dropped.

"All right, let's say you are the one. The Champion of Light or whatever you call it. But that isn't enough. You haven't convinced me that you really need this Secret -- this Treasure of St.George. You just said it yourself, others have tried to claim this Treasure for their own purposes. If I helped you, how do I know that I wouldn't be undoing all those centuries of work, keeping it hidden?" Jaw set stubbornly, he met Michael's eyes again with a challenge in his own.

"Gabriel!" Grace exclaimed.

"No, he's right. It is as much his heritage as it is mine. He has to be sure." Michael's gaze did not waver from Gabriel's.

Father Jean nodded agreement with Michael. "Guardianship of the Secret is part of your duty, Gabriel. You would be betraying that duty if you did not ensure that you are doing the right thing."

Forcing his voice into a calm he did not feel, Gabriel spoke more softly. "You said these murders are the reason you need the, uh, Treasure. Explain."

"I told you about the Cult of the Serpent. They are dedicated to the worship of Darkness: the one they call the Great Serpent. To appease his blood-lust, they perform ritual sacrifices. At first, animal sacrifices. Then humans. The victims are always mutilated in specific ways. The murders follow a sequence. Fortunately, for many generations, the forces of Light have managed to thwart the Cult's attempts."

"So, what's so different about this time?"

"There are two sequences. One, called the Lesser Ritual, calls upon the Serpent to bestow favours on its followers; in return for the sacrifices the worshippers ask for wealth, power, strength, unending youth; the usual sort of gifts. But the Greater Ritual is for a far darker purpose. If completed, it allows the Serpent himself to manifest physically on our world."

"Physically," Gabriel repeated nervously. "As in a real, live, fire breathing dragon?"

"The Serpent has many shapes, Gabriel," Father Jean said. "He chooses any form that suits his purpose."

Grace turned back to Michael. "So you're saying the murders are part of the Greater Ritual? How do you know?"

"The last time the Greater Ritual was invoked, it was St.George who defeated the Serpent. He left a chronicle: it describes the rituals that precede the 'Rule of the Dragon', as he called it. He says that if ever the same things occurred again, it would be time for his Secret to emerge once more."

"And these murders match the pattern?" Grace asked. "What was this sequence anyway?"

"You can read the chronicle: the Acts of St. George. There's a copy in my library." Michael said.

Gabriel touched his talisman nervously. His instincts were telling him that something very, very, evil was behind these murders. How the hell did I get myself into this? he asked himself. Every time I start one of these crazy quests, I get in over my head. And I can't seem to stop myself...He abruptly changed the subject. "So what is this Treasure anyway? You keep calling it the Secret; what is the secret?"

Michael stared at him, then grinned. "I think the answer will reveal itself to you. One way or another."

One way or another, huh? Gabriel thought to himself as he lay in bed. He was almost afraid to sleep for fear of what his dreams would be like...

**********************************

   [1]: http://www.geocities.com/maya_ar/myfic.html#IBDIDN Index



	4. Heritage

**[In Brightest Day, In Darkest Night...][1]**   
**[A Gabriel Knight Mystery][1]**

**Chapter 3**

**_"I to my perils_**   
**_Of cheat and charmer_**   
**_Came clad in armour_**   
**_By stars benign._**

**_Hope lies to mortals_**   
**_And most believe her_**   
**_But man's deceiver_**   
**_Was never mine."_**

**_-- A.E.Housman_**

**********************************

_Fear was his world. Fear and the darkness that pressed down on him like a shroud. Huddled into a fetal position, the frightful slithering noises around him sent him into an unceasing paroxysm of terror. Death would be preferable to this..._

_Light! So bright that he had to shield his eyes against the awful radiance. Through squinting, dazzled eyes he saw the silhouette of a man. A man who bore the essence of light itself in his hands. Bright as the sun at mid-day it shone; too bright for the eyes of mortal men. It seemed to grow, a blazing glory of white flame, till he saw nothing but the source of the light itself: a shining blade that dwarfed the whole world._

_"Only two things redeem you!" thundered the voice of the Dragon._

_"Keep your trust, Sir Knight," begged a tired voice._

_"Burn!" hissed his nemesis, and fire engulfed him..._

Gabriel sat bolt upright in bed, clutching the talisman at his neck convulsively.

"Shit! I hate these dreams!" He lay back tiredly, heart still pounding frantically. Slowly, calm returned. The morning sun streamed through the window and over his chest, striking brilliant highlights off the gems in his talisman. "Might as well get up, I guess."

Walking out into the passage, he was looking hopefully forward to an infusion of caffeine when Michael's door opened ahead of him. He stopped dead in his tracks, all thoughts of coffee vanishing from his brain as Grace stepped out. In her robe.

She paused for a second as she saw him. Then catching his expression, she continued down to her room. "Good Morning!" she said brightly. "See you at breakfast?" She passed him with a nonchalant wave.

Gabriel remained rooted to the spot, quite literally unable to move. His first instinct was to chase after her and demand what the h*ll she thought she was doing. His second was to go and smash Michael's face in. Then sanity returning, a moment's thought told him what Grace's reaction to either move would be. He forced himself to walk on downstairs, toward the kitchen.

**********************************

**_*Thursday, 19 June*_**

A half hour later, he was sitting in Michael's car again, feeling moderately pleased with himself. He had managed to restrain himself from asking any questions. Grace had given him a couple of strange looks, but Michael seemed not to notice anything unusual. There's gotta be some reasonable explanation, he reassured himself. Gracie wouldn't... Unfortunately, he couldn't quite convince himself of that. It had taken a determined effort to agree casually when Michael suggested a trip to see the Chateau de Gisors.

"The Chateau was where the Templars were imprisoned by Philip's men?", Grace asked.

"Yes, many of them were held in the dungeons," Michael agreed. "There's an interesting maze leading to the entrance of the castle. And the view from the tower is fantastic."

The car pulled into a parking lot just outside the Chateau. Michael stopped to speak to the guard on duty outside, and the three of them were allowed in. This early in the morning, there were no tourists around.

Michael led them unhesitatingly through the maze of tall hedges in front of the door. A short, white-haired man met them in the entrance hall. Michael introduced him as Martin, the guide and caretaker.

They wandered around, seeing the Great Hall, the Chapel, all high roofed and Gothic, stained glass windows letting in multi-coloured rays of light.

"I'll go and see if Martin will let us into the tower," Michael said.

Gabriel and Grace, left alone, looked idly around. "I wonder what's down there," Grace said, pointing down the hall to an open doorway.

"Let's take a look," Gabriel responded.

They walked down a flight of stairs into a subterranean complex of rooms. Though it was brightly lit with modern electric lights everywhere, there was a palpable air of closeness. This could only be the dungeon. Gabriel looked around curiously, wondering why the place looked familiar. As they walked on, Grace suddenly turned pale and stumbled to a halt, grabbing Gabriel's arm for support.

"Gracie! Are you OK?" He found himself holding her up, as she slumped against him, her eyes wide with shock.

"Get me out of here!" she whispered, hands digging into his arms.

Worried now, he half-supported, half-carried her out into the courtyard, swearing under his breath. Back in the sunshine, she still looked very shaken.

"What happened?" Michael asked, looking anxious.

Gabriel kept an arm around Grace as he answered. "I don't know! We went down to the dungeon, and she..."

"I'm OK," Grace said. "I had this sudden vision or something..." She shuddered.

"I'm sorry," Michael said contritely. "I should have warned you. Those dungeons can be unsettling to anyone who's psychically sensitive. Did you feel anything, Gabriel?"

"No, just thought the place looked familiar, somehow..."

Michael shot him a curious look, and seemed on the verge of making a comment. He changed his mind, however, and suggested that they leave. Grace agreed with relieved enthusiasm.

A short while later, the three of them were seated at a local cafe. Gabriel was frowning heavily. He was beginning to feel very frustrated, for some reason. It was as though something he should know was hovering elusively just beyond his reach.

"Dammit!" he growled, slamming a fist on the table, and startling the waiter who was clearing away their empty cups. The poor man stepped back, wondering if it was anything he had done.

Michael spoke reassuringly to him, shooting a wickedly humourous look at Gabriel. "Sont fous, ces touristes," he ended, tapping his head suggestively. Grace was trying hard not to laugh.

"Hey! What did you just tell the guy?" Gabriel asked indignantly. He turned defensively to the waiter. "Listen, whatever he said, it's all lies, OK?" The waiter stared back uncomprehendingly. "Uh, il..est un tres, tres, gros, uh...canard?" he tried, pointing at Michael.

The waiter nodded nervously and sidled away hurriedly. Gabriel turned back to Grace and Michael, puzzled, to find them helpless with laughter. "What did I say?" he enquired, bewildered.

Michael managed to recover sufficiently to explain, "You just told him I was a very, very, fat duck!" He collapsed again. Grace was laughing so hard there were tears in her eyes.

Gabriel looked indignant for a moment, and then the memory of the poor waiter's face came back to him. He cracked a smile. "OK, OK, so my faculty for languages leaves a little to be desired..." At least Gracie was looking happier...

When the other two had sobered down, he leaned forward. "I think we need to check into these murders more directly. Like, the scene of the crime, that sort of thing."

"I was going to suggest we visit the scene tomorrow."

"How convenient," Gabriel said dryly. "And what are we going to do for the rest of today?"

"Right now, we need to return home. Remember I said I had some things to show you? I think it's time."

**********************************

Back at the St.Clair house, Michael led the way to the back of the manor. This part of the building was clearly very old, with stone walls and high windows. Gabriel looked around as they entered a large room with an arched Gothic roof.

"It's a chapel!" Grace exclaimed, her fascinated eyes travelling from the simple altar to the tall stained glass windows that slanted coloured light onto the floor.

A carved stone altar stood before the plain wooden cross at the end of the room. Gabriel moved to look at it, noticing barely legible inscriptions on the worn surface.

"Invicto," he read out, the only word still distinguishable beneath the cross that stood out in relief against the stone surface.

He turned to examine the scenes depicted in the stained glass around the room. He quickly recognised the sources for two of the sketches that Michael had sent him earlier: St.George slaying the Dragon with a flaming sword, and an armored Knight who wore a red Latin cross and held a gold medallion. The next window showed two Knights, standing side by side, both wearing the red cross, and both holding out golden talismans up toward the sun. A large panel depicted the same men kneeling before what looked like a stone sarcophagus. Grace came to join him before the last, a frown of concentration knitting her brow.

"That place looks familiar," she said. "Where have I seen that scene before?"

Michael moved forward to the altar. "Gabriel, would you give me a hand?" he asked, bending to grasp the side of the stone slab.

Gabriel complied, a quizzical smile lifting a corner of his mouth. His eyes widened in sudden understanding as the slab moved, sliding back on hidden rollers as the two men pulled. Steps leading into a subterranean chamber were revealed.

Michael handed Gabriel and Grace flashlights, and then paused at the top of the steps.

"Step into my parlour," he suggested, a mischievous gleam in his eyes as he noted their stunned expressions, and walked down.

The other two hastened after him, down into a high roofed underground chamber. It was circular, with a raised platform in the center. A door led out of the chamber, into a smaller room. Michael strode into the latter, his flashlight highlighting glimpses of murals on the walls. He halted in front of an enormous bas-relief carving at the end of the room. An armored Knight mounted on a horse looked on as a rampant lion trod on the body of an enormous dragon. On either side of the scene were two circular stone carvings. One was a replica of the Ritter talisman: the Key of St.George. The other showed the same symbols as Michael's medallion: a six-pointed star surrounding a sword.

Gabriel reached out to touch the time-worn carvings, wondering how long ago they had been set in stone here. Then he noticed the niches below the carvings. Just the right size for his Talisman. And Michael's.

He turned to raise an enquiring eyebrow at Michael. "So, is this where the big Secret is?"

Michael returned the look with a sardonic one of his own. "What do you think?"

"No, I guess not. Too easy, huh? So what is in here?"

"In there? What are you guys talking about?" Grace asked, exasperated.

Gabriel grinned at her, and gestured at the carving. "It's a door, Gracie. And it can only be opened by putting my Talisman, and his, in those slots over there. Right?" he said, turning to Michael.

"Quite."

Grace frowned. "Just what is it that's behind that stone panel? Not the Secret of St.George that you keep talking about?"

"No, Grace. But there's something there that we'll need. Gabriel? Shall we?"

Michael placed the heavy gold Seal he wore in the right hand slot and watched Gabriel do the same with his Talisman at the other side. With a heavy grinding sound, the panel slid aside, revealing a deep shelf in the rock. Michael reached in to retrieve a carved wooden box from the recess. He placed it on the floor outside, and the others knelt to join him. He gently swung the hinged lid back, to see a carefully tied scroll and a manuscript of some kind. Grace reached in eagerly, carefully removing both objects with an expression of incredulous awe.

"Are they ...?" she asked, clearly hoping for confirmation.

"Original manuscripts, yes," Michael affirmed. "They have been in here since the 12th century. I've only seen copies, in my family library." He carefully unrolled the scroll, to expose a coloured illustration, with words marked on it.

"A map." Gabriel stared at the writing on it. "Latin, isn't it?"

"It was the language of educated men at the time," Michael agreed.

"And the manuscript?"

Michael turned it so that the beautifully calligraphed cover sheet was revealed. " 'Acta Sancti Georgii': The Acts of Saint George. It is a chronicle handed down in my family from one generation to the next, based on the journal of George's own son."

A short while later, they were sitting in Michael's library. The ancient manuscript was spread out in front of Grace, who looked as though she had found the Holy Grail. "Wow! An original 12th century Latin document! I'll have this translated in a couple of hours for you, Gabriel," she said, settling down at the massive teak desk in the library. He walked out after a couple of minutes, deciding he wouldn't be of any help here whatsoever. Michael went out, "to make arrangements" for the next day.

Gabriel wandered into the living room. "Well, hello," Father Jean said, looking up from the book he was reading. "You look troubled, Gabriel. Is there anything I can do?"

Gabriel hesitated, then sat down. "I'm not sure," he said.

**********************************

"...anyway, the book's doing pretty well, so that's something," Gabriel explained. He had been talking for a long time.

"I sense you are troubled about your role in the affair," Father Jean said gently. "Do you feel guilt about destroying Von Glower?"

Gabriel turned his eyes away, staring at the wall. "I wonder sometimes... Did he really have any more of a choice than I did? He didn't ask to be born a werewolf. At least I had a chance to redeem myself..."

"There are always choices, Gabriel. You may not see that, but it is so. Von Glower made his choice, as you did. At the very least, he might have refrained from using his powers to do harm. Instead, he embraced the evil path, willingly subordinating himself to his curse. And worst of all, he sought to drag others into the darkness with him. Ludwig, Von Zell, you... who knows how many more? No, he chose his own doom."

"I didn't think of it that way before. Still, look at me! I just got tossed into being Schattenjager. When I started out, it was for myself, to save my life, and then Wolfgang died... After that, I couldn't turn my back on it. I owed him..."

"And you resent being obligated?"

"No! No, not resent, exactly. I just wonder if I'm cut out to do this, that's all. Look at Michael. He grew up knowing what he was going to have to do. Me, I'm just a good old boy from New Orleans who got mixed up in this by accident. Hell, most of the time I don't even understand what it all means!" Gabriel exclaimed.

"It is difficult, being Schattenjager. Under any circumstances. A lifetime of training might prove inadequate to prepare a man for it." Father Jean's face was very grave. "Do not be so sure that seeing what lies ahead makes the burden any lighter. Knowledge of the future can be a fearful thing. Your grandfather knew, and sought to escape it. Yet, here you are. Full circle."

Gabriel shook his head wonderingly. "Yeah, makes you think about Fate, and all that."

"We all do the best we can. No one ever said it would be easy. But I think you know that already," he smiled.

"Yeah, that's for sure," Gabriel laughed, without humour.

A brief silence followed. Gerard studied the younger man thoughtfully.

"You have not yet accepted your destiny as Schattenjager," he said at last. "In your mind perhaps, but not in your heart."

Gabriel looked up, startled.

"And in the process you are blocking your very considerable gifts. Don't look so surprised. You have what is popularly known as the Sight -- all the Schattenjagers do. Yet you do not use it, do not even admit having it. And so your talent manifests itself only through your subconscious, in your dreams."

"I'm blocking my talent? ESP or whatever?" Gabriel said sceptically.

"Yes. I'm afraid so. Your instincts could serve you better if you would only allow them free rein."

"My instincts. Sure, I have a great record with those. I trusted Von Glower, remember? Where were my instincts then?"

"They were probably screaming warnings at you, but you chose to ignore them. A part of you was unwilling to listen."

"Von Glower said I had a streak of the Beast in me."

"We all do. We need not let it control us, however."

Gabriel nodded, his mouth twisting in memory.

"There is something else, also. Something to do with the lovely Ms. Nakimura, perhaps?" Father Jean's eyes were smiling.

"Is it that obvious?" He was embarrassed.

"I am an old man, Gabriel. I've seen a great deal of life. Michael seems very taken with her..."

"Yeah, those two sure hit it off real well."

"This worries you?"

"It's not like Gracie. She's always so careful, in control, you know?"

"You envy their growing closeness?"

"Whoa, you've got it all wrong, there's nothing between Grace and me! We're just friends!" He tried to say it with conviction.

"Your reaction seems out of proportion. Are you sure of your feelings for her?"

"Of course I'm sure. She's important to me, yeah. But there's nothing more than that."

"Why not? I find her beautiful, brilliant; she is warm, witty, and passionate about her beliefs. I sense strength in her, and great honour. It would be easy to care for her, yes?"

"You left out stubborn, sarcastic, judgemental and arrogant! Also, she's a terrible snob. It's no bed of roses, living with Gracie."

"Yet you worry about the attraction between her and Michael?"

"Guess I'm just a selfish SOB after all. I don't want to lose her, Father."

Father Jean shook his head slowly. "I think your relationship with her will remain rocky. Until you confront your true feelings for her. Ask yourself this: have you truly committed to your role as Schattenjager? Or to your so-called partnership with Grace? I doubt you will find peace until you resolve these things for yourself."

Whatever might have been said next was silenced by Grace's excited entrance.

"I've got it!" she exclaimed, waving a bunch of papers. "The translation. It's done!"

Gabriel was on his feet, relieved at the interruption. "Great! So what's the story with these murders?"

"It's amazing, Gabriel, this document, it's priceless! An original manuscript! It's a copy of an even older document from the fourth century! And it's intact! The historical significance..."

"Gracie," he broke in patiently. "Cut to the chase, please?"

"Oh. Sorry. It's just that this is a classicist's dream... Right. The Greater Ritual. There are three stages. In the first, the followers are supposed to invoke the serpent with the sacrifice of animals. A hundred animals, to be precise. It's pretty gross, entrails of chickens, blood of goats, hearts of dogs, etc. Yecchh."

"As if that wasn't bad enough," she continued, "In the next stage, they have to sacrifice a worshipper. Has to be a volunteer. At least he gets to die relatively painlessly. Which is more than I can say about the the rest of the victims."

She made a face. "In the third stage, they need human sacrifices. The descriptions are pretty graphic. These weirdos need lots of assorted body parts, apparently. They perform these disgusting rituals with them, and then they burn the extracted parts. The procedure is slightly different for each victim, but they always remove the heart and the eyes of every one, except for the last one. The final sacrifice is supposed to 'bleed his life out'. There are six sacrifices in all, and the last one brings the Serpent physically into our world." She stopped. "That's very bad, apparently. The Serpent becomes really difficult to stop once that happens."

"That's something of an understatement, Grace," Michael said. He had entered the room in the middle of her speech. "Nearly impossible to stop would be closer."

"Terrific," Gabriel said into the ensuing silence. "When do we get started?"

"Tomorrow. I've arranged for us to meet the Commissaire in charge of the 'Slasher' case."

**********************************

   [1]: http://www.geocities.com/maya_ar/myfic.html#IBDIDN Index



	5. Shadows

**[In Brightest Day, In Darkest Night...][1]**   
**[A Gabriel Knight Mystery][1]**

**Chapter 4**

**_"And with tears of blood he cleansed the hand,_**   
**_The hand that held the steel;_**   
**_For only blood can wipe out blood,_**   
**_And only tears can heal."_**   
**_-- Oscar Wilde_**

**********************************

_Torches flickered, casting bloody shadows on the night black walls. She was tied to a post in the center, nearly unconscious with fatigue and hunger. Anger and fear warred to keep her tired mind awake. The sounds of fighting in the outer hall had roused her. Now the silence was even worse than before._

_Behind her, an ominous shadow bulked into being, and she turned her head to look. A stifled scream of terror fought its way past her palsied lips at the death that confronted her; let it be quick, she prayed desperately._

_And then a running figure erupted into the dark hall; an armored man bearing the strangest weapon she had ever seen. It seemed to be a sword, except that the blade was fiery and shone like the sun. Head swimming, she barely heard him shout a challenge; run, she wanted to scream, save yourself! but the words would not come. The warrior stepped forward, nimbly avoiding the mighty sweeps of the Dragon's tail, and dodging the fearsome jaws as they sought to savage him. The sword in his hands swept fiercely forward, slicing the dark air like lightning to plunge into the heart of the Beast. An eldritch shriek drowned out every other sound and reality seemed to crumble around it. She fainted._

_When she awoke, she was lying on the clean, sweet grass under a starlit sky. Someone was bathing her face with a wet cloth. It was the same man, the one with the sword; she would have recognised that lithe, armored form anywhere. His face was still obscured by the helmet he wore. When he turned toward her, she reached out to raise the visor that hid his features..._

Grace woke up, her hand stretched out before her; she dropped it in confusion when she realised she was still in bed. What was that all about? she wondered. And who was that man? She felt as though she knew him...

**********************************

**_*Friday, 20 June*_**

An hour later, the three of them were walking across the town square. Gabriel was still yawning. A cup of coffee was definitely in order.

They walked across the cobbled street to a cafe that bore the sign "Chez Jacques" in scarlet letters. Finding a table, they were greeted by a short, thin, balding man in an apron.

"Bonjour! Salut, Michael, ca va?" he asked cheerfully in a beautiful deep voice that belied his diminutive size, placing menu cards before them.

"Bonjour," chorused Michael and Grace. "Ouais, Jacques, ca va. Et toi?" Michael continued pleasantly. Gabriel was slower off the mark. Lifting a bleary and uncomprehending eye to look at the card, he put it down.

"Do you have any coffee?" he asked. Then, realising that this was a French restaurant, he tried again, "Uh, un cafe, s'il vous..."

He needn't have bothered. "Was that a New Orleans accent? Y'all aren't from around here, are ya?"

"Sure, I'm from New Orleans," Gabriel agreed, surprised.

"Why, the world is round, and it do spin! Welcome to Chez Jacques! So good to hear a voice from home! I'm Jacques Boudreaux, formerly of New Orleans, now of Gisors, at your service, mon ami!"

"Glad to know you. I'm Gabriel Knight, this is Grace Nakimura..."

"Gabriel Knight? The famous writer? I'm a big fan, cher! Loved 'The Voodoo Murders' -- never thought I'd get to meet the author! What a pleasure!" he said, pumping Gabriel's hand. Noticing Grace, he did a comical double take. "Fujitsu?"

Grace rolled her eyes. "No, I'm Grace. Fujitsu is a figment of this guy's over-heated imagination, Monsieur Boudreaux," she said, as Gabriel suppressed a chuckle. She was always irritated by mentions of Blake Backlash's faithful assistant.

"But what an imagination, eh? Please, call me Jacques. Everyone does. So, y'all visiting with Michael here? Any friend of the big guy's a friend of mine, I always say! What'll it be?"

They ordered breakfast, and he hurried off into the kitchen. When he returned, he was accompanied by a plump, smiling lady who carried a coffee pot and an array of dishes that smelled very good indeed.

"So, what brings a famous author all the way out here?" Jacques asked, after introducing his wife, Marthe.

"Actually, I'm here to do some research for my next book,' Gabriel explained.

The little man looked very grave and shook his head. "Oh, the slasher murders. Ve-ry nasty, bad ju-ju, cher."

"Bad ju-ju?" queried Grace.

"Yeah, something very wrong. Not natural." He crossed himself. "Y'all better be careful."

Gabriel leaned forward. "Sure, that sounds like good advice. What do you know about the murders?"

"What everybody knows, cher; four murders. They say you shouldn't walk out of town after dark. That's where he takes 'em. Cuts 'em up, so I hear."

"Can you tell me about the victims?"

"I don't know that much; they were tourists, not from around here, 'cept for Vladimir Tornenkov. He was a local, God rest him. Killed last Saturday. Very sad."

"Tornenkov? He was a pianist, right?"

"Oh yeah, very famous. He was supposed to play at the Festival at Avignon next month. He and his partner: Monsieur Lucien Laroche. Poor guy. Half the year, the two of them used to stay right here in town. Very close, they were. Hey Michael, didn't you know Vladimir?"

"Not really, Jacques. You know I travel a lot, and when I'm home, I don't get to town that often..."

"Where was Tornenkov's body found? Do you know?" Gabriel interrupted.

"Oh sure." He leaned forward confidentially. "It was my friend Jules Rustin who found the body. Terrible, just terrible. It was over on the north-west edge of town, right next to the Blanchard place."

"You think your friend Jules Rustin would mind if I asked him some questions?" Gabriel asked, noting down the names and places..

"No problem. I'll talk to him. You'll find him at the bakery. Works there."

"Thanks. I appreciate it."

"For you, cher, anything! Now y'all come to me if y'all need any help at all, y'hear?"

"I'll keep that in mind."

They decided to split up. Gabriel wanted a look at the scene of the last murder. Grace said she needed to call Gerde, and look up some stuff. Michael went off to talk to the local authorities about the case.

**********************************

Gabriel ducked under the tape that surrounded the site where the last body had been found. The marks in the ground were faint, and only a chalk outline indicated where the body had been lying. Noticing a dark patch in the grass further down, he walked over to examine it.

"Hmm. Something heavy was lying here. It's flattened the grass around here. No blood, though. Wait a minute," he said, bending down to retrieve a small unidentifiable lump that lay on the edge of the flattened area. He looked carefully at it, then sniffed at it. It smelled sweet, but vaguely repulsive. "Maybe it's some sort of incense?" he wondered. "Better hang on to it."

He walked back to the chalk outline. "Not much blood; wonder if they cleaned up?" He looked around again. "It's quiet here, but the farm's not far away. If there was a struggle, or the victim cried out, I'll bet the Blanchards would have heard."

He had a sudden, disorienting vision: of the place he stood in, shrouded in darkness. A dark figure plunged a knife into a silent, unmoving body...

He started, coming back to the waking world with a shudder.

Deciding there was not much more he could learn there, he walked back to the town. Sauntering into the town square, he headed straight for the bakery. It was a small shop, redolent with the delicious aroma of freshly baked bread.

"Never knew anybody made this many different kinds of bread," he thought, looking at the fully stocked shelves. "Excuse me", he said to the middle aged man behind the counter. "Do you speak English?"

"Yes, a little."

"My name's Gabriel Knight, and I'm looking for Monsieur Jules Rustin?"

"I am he. Ah, you are the American writer Jacques called me about. What can I do for you?"

"If you don't mind, I'd like to ask you some questions about Tornenkov's murder. I understand you found the body?"

"Yes, a terrible tragedy. I was walking back from the Blanchard farm on Sunday morning; Saturdays, I play chess with Michel Blanchard; I spent the night there. I was walking down, and there was the body. Horrible."

"You spent Saturday night at the Blanchard's? Did you hear anything unusual during the night? Any disturbance?"

"No! That was, how you say, bizarre. And there are dogs; they would make the noise, yes? But no! They are quiet. Also, sound carries in the country, non? The police were asking how we could have heard nothing. But there was nothing to hear!"

"When you found the body: could you describe it?"

"At first I didn't know who it was; the face was so badly cut. And there was a big hole here," he gestured towards his chest.

"In the chest?"

"Oui, the chest. I could not look any more, you understand. I go for help!"

"Naturally. Is there anything else you can tell me? Anything that was unusual about the scene?"

"Ah, ouais, there was something. I cannot be sure; but there was an -- odour. Like perfume, but not the same. When I came back with the police, it was gone."

"Thank you. You've been very helpful."

"De rien. Enjoy your stay in Gisors."

As he walked back toward Chez Jacques, a voice hailed him. "Gabriel!"

He turned to see Michael, accompanied by a studious-looking, bespectacled man in a dark suit, hurrying across the square toward him.

"Gabriel, I'd like you to meet Commissaire Jean Claud Dernaud. He has very kindly agreed to discuss his case with us."

The Commissaire shook hands with Gabriel, while glancing wryly at Michael. "Only what's in the public domain. I'm not at liberty to discuss anything that's under investigation. If it weren't for Monsieur Gerard's recommendation, I would not have agreed to this."

"Comm. Dernaud is a former student of Father Jean's," Michael explained. "While he used to teach Chemistry at the University."

"Thanks for agreeing to talk to us, Commissaire." Gabriel contrasted the scholarly looking man before him with his old friend Mosely and the belligerent Kommissar Leber. Not his idea of a cop. Kinda young, too.

"Well, I'm on my lunch break now, so perhaps we could do this at Chez Jacques?"

Seated in a quiet corner, Gabriel prepared to tape his session with the Commissaire.

"I hear the first three victims were tourists?"

"Yes, one Italian, one Portuguese; the third was French, from Paris. They were all apparently interested in Gisors. Not unusual. The rumours of treasure make this a popular spot for people interested in that sort of thing."

"And the fourth was a local."

"Vladimir Tornenkov was something of a celebrity, actually. He was especially well known for his speciality concerts with his friend Lucien Laroche: the violinist. I've heard them on several occasions. Brilliant. He was at a dinner party at Laroche's place that night. God knows why he went out that late. He told his friends he was going straight to bed. Bed was next door, in the adjoining apartment."

"Maybe he didn't go of his own free will?"

"His footsteps led up almost to the place where the body was found. No signs of anyone else at the scene. No signs of a struggle."

"What about the others?"

"The same. They seemed to have walked straight to their deaths."

"And they've all been killed on weekends? Outside the town?"

"That is correct. The first two late on Friday, the last two late on Saturday. Four consecutive weekends." He stared broodingly at his plate. "I'm going to catch this murderer if it's the last thing I do."

"You think there'll be more murders?"

"I'm sure of it. This bast**d is not going to stop till we catch him."

"Today's Friday."

"I know. I've trebled the patrols around the town."

"About Tornenkov: how do you explain the fact that the Blanchards heard nothing?"

"I can't. I don't understand it either." His eyes narrowed. "You've been asking questions around here."

"Just trying to find out what I can..."

"Mr.Knight, I respect Jean Gerard enormously, but not even for his sake will I allow anyone to play the vigilante in my jurisdiction. You say you are here to research a book. Very well. But if you find anything that the police should know, I expect you to come to me. Immediately. Do we understand each other?"

Gabriel nodded. "I understand. Thanks for your time."

"I will be in my office at all times. This is my card."

"Thanks. I'll be in touch."

The Commissaire got up, leaving some money on the table. He nodded to Michael and left.

"Well. Kinda touchy, isn't he?"

Michael raised an ironic eyebrow. "Don't underestimate him because he looks like a school teacher. He has a h*ll of a reputation. Broke a major drug ring in Paris a year ago."

"What's he doing in a little town like this?"

"Apparently he stepped on the wrong toes; some very senior people in the ministry."

Gabriel whistled. "Straight arrow cop, crooked politician, huh?"

"The old, old story." Michael agreed. "Plus, he's originally from around these parts anyway."

"Glad he's in our corner, then."

Wonder what Grace is doing? thought Gabriel.

**********************************

Waiting for someone to answer the phone at the other end of the number she had dialed, Grace frowned at the painting on the wall across from her -- "Les Bergers d'Arcadie".

"Schloss Ritter," Gerde answered.

"Gerde, it's Grace."

"I'm so glad you called!"

"What's up?"

"I don't know how to explain. I dreamed of Wolfgang last night, I think he was trying to tell me something. It was as though he was standing in front of me, but I couldn't hear him..." Her voice broke.

"Gerde? Are you all right?" Grace asked sympathetically. It had taken Gerde a long time to get over the heartbreak of Wolfgang's death.

"Yes, I'm fine. Grace, I found the notes you wanted; I sent them to the St.Clair address."

"Thanks. I think it might turn out to be really important."

"And there's something else. Mrs. Smith called from Pennsylvania. She said it was urgent that you call her back. She sounded very worried."

"Mrs. Smith? Wow, I haven't heard from her since that Christmas card she sent us! OK, I'll call her. Thanks again."

"No trouble. And Grace? Please take care. Both of you."

"I will. Don't worry."

Grace smiled at the memory of the Smiths. Nice couple, if a little spaced-out. But they had proved to be true friends during the crisis with Gabriel a year ago.

Wondering what time it was in Pennsylvania, she dialed the number.

The phone at the other end was picked up on the third ring.

"Hello?" A male voice enquired.

"Is that the Smith residence? I'm trying to reach Mrs. Smith."

An excited female voice made itself heard in the background. "Emil? Is that Grace?"

"Why, yes, I believe it is. How are you.." he began, but was interrupted. Mrs. Smith's voice rang down the phone line at top volume. Grace winced, holding the phone a little further away from her ear.

"Grace! Is that you, sugar pie? I've been so worried! You know, I knew there was something wrong, the cards have been falling so strangely! I'm so glad you called at last!"

"Uh, what is it you wanted to talk to me about?" Grace asked.

"That's what I've been trying to tell you dear," the plump 'demonologist' shrilled. "I saw danger ahead. For you and your nice young man. And I said to myself, I've simply got to warn them!"

"You mean Gabriel? Mrs. Smith, I've told you, Gabriel isn't 'my' young man..."

"Yes, dear," the occultist said indulgently. "But as I was saying, I saw danger. Demons, dear! Something very powerful; you must be careful! The entity that's threatening you is very old, possessed with evil. I did a tarot reading, and the cards were full of warnings! And Gabriel's reading: the most significant card that kept coming up was the Fool!"

"Why am I not surprised?" Grace muttered dryly.

"No dear, you don't understand! The Fool signifies great energy: it means there's a quest of some kind, something he has to accomplish!"

"And your reading, dear;", the plump 'demonologist' continued, "There's going to be an important choice coming up for you. You must think it through very carefully. Your decision will affect a lot of futures!"

"That's not much help; could you give me something more specific?"

"I told you, dear, I just read the cards. I don't control the message!" She paused. Her voice lowered. "There's something else: tell Gabriel that he musn't falter. When faced with darkness, the truth will light his path. That's very important."

"The truth will light his path. OK, I'll tell him." Not that he was going to take it to heart, she thought derisively. The expedient lie, that was Gabriel's forte.

"Thanks again, Mrs. Smith. I'll call you later."

"You do that, punkin. And try and eat a little more. You're so thin!"

Mrs. Smith and my mom, Grace thought. Maybe it's a conspiracy?

Well, I'd better get down to that research, she told herself. Demons? There's one for the book!

The St.Clair library was extremely well equipped. Grace started on a leather bound volume titled 'Snake cults: the Worship of the Serpent through the ages', and quickly became absorbed.

**********************************

Gabriel studied the abstracted face of the man opposite him; trying to understand the edgy nervousness he always felt in his presence.

"Michael?" he finally blurted, calling the other man's attention away from the pencil sketch he was executing. When an enquiring gaze turned toward him, Gabriel found that he had lost track of what he wanted to say.

"What's it like?" he finally asked. "Being..." he hesitated over a suitable choice of words.

"The Champion of Light?" Michael finished for him, smiling with self deprecating humour. "The pay's terrible, and the working hours are worse."

Gabriel felt irritation return. It must have shown in his face, because Michael's expression sobered, losing the amusement. In his turn, he scrutinised Gabriel's face carefully.

"You really want to know." He drew a deep breath, and stared up at the sky. "It should be glorious, right? It does have its moments. Sometimes, it's the most amazing feeling. Stretch out your hand, and feel the lightning dance at your command. Walking on air, breathing water!" He fell silent.

"You pray for those moments." His eyes, when they turned back to meet Gabriel's, were dark haunted pools, turning inward. "But often -- it's an ache and an emptiness. The worst part is the loneliness. It tears you. Always the fear, the doubts: will it be this time? will you fail? die alone? And no one will ever, ever truly understand."

In that moment, Gabriel Knight, Schattenjager, reluctant hero, began to comprehend the shape of his fate, in the tormented eyes of a stranger.

"Why do it?" he managed at last, harshly, but without animosity, seeking to understand. His own mind was a seething maelstorm. No words would express the hundred shades of meaning in that single question.

The answer, when it came, was terrifying in its simplicity. "If we don't, no one will."

Gabriel looked away, unable to bear it. "I can't," he said tightly.

"You will." Michael pointed out at the street, at a group of children running down the pavement. "You'll do it for them." He swung his arm to indicate the handful of patrons lingering over a late lunch at Chez Jacques. "For them. And all the others like them who'll never know you, never understand."

He looked back at Gabriel. The afternoon shadows slanted across the table, cutting Michael's face in half, leaving the dark eyes gleaming out of a mask. He looked like Batman. "Because we can't not do it," he said softly. "It's what we were born for, you and I."

He stood up abruptly, breaking the mood. "I'll see you later, at the house." Gabriel was conscious of relief. Too much had passed between them in those few words. Empathy was disconcerting, and at the moment, uncomfortable.

He glanced at the sketch that was left behind on the table. It was a symphony of careless lines that conjured up a desolate landscape. A deserted field. Sparse trees stood like ghostly sentinels under a bleak sky. In the foreground, a single animate figure crouched, its contours human, but a suggestion of vague bestiality in the primeval threat of its posture.

He studied it in silence, recalling his disturbing vision of murder in the countryside.

"Gabriel!" Grace called, crossing the street to join him at his table. Jacques waved, but the lunch-time crowd was keeping him too busy to come over at once.

"Hey there, beautiful," he greeted her, forcing a casual smile. "What's up?"

**********************************

"...and there's a strong tradition that possession by a demon leads to an extended life-span as well as bestowing occult powers."

"Something like Voudoun, huh?" Gabriel said thoughtfully, recalling his experiences in New Orleans.

"Similar, but while possession by Voudoun spirits occurred only temporarily, the European cult follows a different practice. Apparently, once a worshipper submits to possession, the demonic entity can only be cast out by specific rituals. In the Cult of the Serpent, the exorcism would also include the destruction of some sort of physical 'focus'; an object that lets the demon exist in our world."

"What sort of object?"

Grace shrugged. "It could be anything: a book, a jewel; in one case, it was a mirror! Anyway, the point is, as long as the object is safe, the possession continues. If it's destroyed, then the demon is banished, and all the effects of the possession immediately follow; the long life, the youth, the beauty, the strength, or whatever other 'gifts' the possessed human has been enjoying."

"So that's it; everything we know about the Lesser Ritual?"

"It's all I've found so far. I'll keep looking. I did find out that there's going to be a memorial service for Vladimir Tornenkov this evening; at the town hall. It's probably worth checking out."

"I think you're right. I'd like to talk to some of his friends. Gracie, I've been thinking. If Michael is right, and these murders are really part of the Greater Ritual of the Serpent, it has to have started with animal sacrifices, right?"

"That's what the book said." Grace agreed.

"And, there should have been a voluntary self-sacrifice by one of the worshippers."

"Yeah, that was the sequence."

"So, maybe we should check out any disappearances, or mysterious deaths that occurred before the slasher killings started. Also any missing livestock, that sort of thing."

"You're right! Why didn't I think of that?" Grace exclaimed.

"That's why I'm the crime writer, remember?" Gabriel snickered. "I think I'll pay Commissaire Dernaud a visit."

**********************************

The Commissaire's office was like its occupant, neat, bright, orderly. With plenty of hard edges. Including the uncomfortable chair that Gabriel occupied gingerly.

"...so, I was wondering if you could help me out with your missing persons records."

Dernaud stared back at him with disconcerting impassivity. "I've been doing some checking on you, Mr.Knight. Your first book, that was based on a real case, was it not?"

"Loosely," Gabriel admitted, wondering where this was leading.

"And the second: you offered a very interesting solution to the mysterious zoo wolf killings in Munich. Killings that in fact, stopped equally mysteriously, without the perpetrators being found."

Gabriel thought it would be prudent not to respond. After a moment, Dernaud continued. "I spoke to Kommissar Leber, who investigated that case. He had a number of interesting things to say about you."

"Good things, I hope," Gabriel smiled nervously.

"Why don't you tell me why you are suddenly interested in missing persons, Mr. Knight?" The blue eyes that stared penetratingly out from behind the glasses were hard and intelligent.

Gabriel shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Clearly, this man would not be as easy to deal with as Mosely or Leber. "I'm working on a theory: that these might be cult related killings. If that's the case, there might be some earlier deaths that haven't come to light. Within the last month or so, maybe?"

"Interesting. Continue, please. Why should you believe these murders are cult related?"

"Uh, call it a hunch." That didn't seem to go down very well. "All right, how about this: if I'm right, all the victims would have had one thing in common. The hearts and the eyes would have been removed."

Dernaud's gaze sharpened with interest. "That is something you could not have found out about in the papers. Perhaps you do know something." He assessed Gabriel carefully. "Very well, Mr. Knight, I'll take a chance on this."

He pressed the buzzer on the table. A young woman peered into the room. He said something to her rapidly in French. She disappeared and came back in a short time with a file.

"Merci, Helene." He opened the file and passed a photograph across to Gabriel.

"Christian Lemaitre. The third victim." The photo showed a blond man with prominent teeth and bad skin.

"He was supposedly here on vacation. I find that hard to believe. He was what you Americans would call a small time operator, drugs, stolen goods, that sort of thing. Barely one step ahead of the Paris police force. Until about a year ago, that is. Then our Christian seemed to have a change of fortune. He bought a new car, an expensive one. Set his girlfriend up in a posh flat. Even bought her a diamond brooch. He apparently told her that he had 'hit the big league'. No more shady deals on street corners. She claims to have seen him with vast amounts of cocaine, which he said were for his special new friends."

Gabriel shook his head, puzzled. "What was he doing down here?"

"That's what I asked myself. I might have dismissed it as unimportant, if it were not for one thing."

Dernaud pulled out another photograph, and passed it across. This one showed a heavily built man, with mediterranean features, dark hair and eyes, and an imposing Roman nose.

"Cesar Capelli. A year ago, I arrested both his brothers in Paris. They were involved in a major drug operation there. Cesar managed to escape our net. No proof. And then, nearly four weeks ago, he turned up here, at Gisors. I had a little chat with him. He was confident, almost insolent. He had nothing to do with drugs, he said. He had found a higher meaning in life. The mundane little affairs of this world did not interest him any more." Dernaud grinned ironically.

"Even if I had been inclined to believe him, his behaviour would not have justified it. He met our little Christian thrice, secretly; oh, not here, where I could see them, of course. They met at a little hotel in Chaumont-en-Vexin: that's a small town west of here. A day after their last meeting, Cesar disappeared. Seemingly off the face of the earth. We lost all track of him."

"Really. How interesting," Gabriel said slowly, with narrowed eyes.

"That's what I thought. I would have asked our little Parisian dealer some questions, but alas! He's beyond answering them now, poor bast**d." He retrieved the photographs and put them back in the file. "I wouldn't wish that sort of death on anyone, even a miserable rat like him."

Gabriel hesitated. Then he plunged in. "Uh, Commissaire, there might be something else. Do you know if there have been any cases of stolen livestock? Or any sort of animals at all?"

"Animals? There are usually a few cases of straying pets, or stolen poultry, mostly, in the countryside. Is this significant?"

"It could be. Would you mind asking some of your people to check?"

"All right, I will. Now perhaps you will tell me everything you know about this cult angle you're investigating." He was very firm about it.

"Well, I know this going to sound weird, but there's this obscure Cult, they call it the Cult of the Serpent..." Gabriel gave him a brief and suitably edited history of the Cult, from the information Grace had put together that afternoon.

Dernaud was looking very thoughtful by the end of the recital. "I think I'll borrow this book you mentioned." He grimaced. "I wish I could find a link between Cesar and this town! He must have had a contact! But that is my problem, not yours."

Getting up and extending his hand, he made it plain the conversation was over. "You've been quite helpful, Mr.Knight. I appreciate it. However, I must caution you: do not attempt any action on your own in this affair. You are dealing with dangerous people here, and I would rather you were not the next victim."

"Who, me? Wouldn't dream of it," Gabriel assured him.

"I'm sure," Dernaud said dryly. "I'll be watching. So don't get any bright ideas."

**********************************

Father Jean looked up as Gabriel walked into the living room of the St.Clair house.

"Hello, Gabriel. Back so soon?"

"I've just come from a meeting with your former student: Commissaire Dernaud."

"Ah, Jean Claud. One of my most gifted students. He could have found a job as a research chemist anywhere in Europe. But I think he found academia stifling."

"Seems like a pretty tough cop to me," Gabriel said. Then a thought occurred to him. He pulled out the strange dark brown lump he had found near the murder scene. "Father, do you think you could tell me where I could get this stuff analysed?"

Gerard took the dark crystalline piece from Gabriel and looked closely at it. "Well, unfortunately, I don't have access to a laboratory myself here, but I can give you the name of a former student in Paris who would be glad to help." He glanced shrewdly at the younger man. "I imagine you didn't want to hand it over to Jean Claud right away?"

"Uh, not at the moment. Thank you, Father."

Grace was sitting upstairs in the library, reading a book about the Chateau of Gisors. She didn't notice when Gabriel walked in, and jumped slightly when he spoke.

"Hey there, Gracie. Shouldn't we be heading for that memorial service for Vladimir Tornenkov? It's about time for it to start, right?"

She looked at her watch, startled. "Is it that late? I lost track of time. I was reading this interesting book about the Chateau de Gisors. Here, take a look," she said, holding the book open and passing it across.

'Subterranean secrets?', Gabriel read.

'The castle of Gisors, in the valley of the Epte, is a typical Templar building, from the high perimeter walls to the imposing tower. In 1857, archaeologist Gideon Dubruil alleged that there were immense basements underneath the Chateau, but it was only after the Second World War, when a bombing in the vicinity had exposed part of an underground Merovingian cemetery, that these affirmations found some official support. Dubruil's theories found an earnest believer in Roger Lhomoy, caretaker of the Chateau from 1929.

In 1946 Lhomoy caused a sensation when he asserted to the town council of Gisors that he had discovered a secret entrance to a long basement thirty meters long, nine meters wide, and approximately four and a half meters high, under the tower donjon. Asking for permission to excavate further, he described the chamber. Along its walls, supported by stone crosses, he claimed to have found thirteen statues, which he supposed to be of Christ and the twelve apostles. In addition, lengthwise on the floor, there were nineteen sarcophagi of stone, each two meters long and sixty centimeters wide. The description should have provoked interest, but Lhomoy's statements, strangely enough, found few takers among the city council.

Despite his failure to convince the authorities to excavate, the former caretaker did not give up. In 1952, he succeeded in convincing the administration to allow him to continue digging. The authorization was granted, but only on the condition that a huge deposit be paid: so large a sum that Lhomoy was forced to renounce his ambitions. Thanks to the mediation of Gerard de Sede, who later published the best-selling 'Les Templiers sont parmi nous': 'The Templars are among us', the former caretaker found a chance to tell his story. Nonetheless, the authorities in Gisors still refused to allow excavations, and, in 1962, by order of the then Minister of Culture, Andre Malraux, they sealed the donjon, where Lhomoy's investigations had taken place.

In 1964, after the publication of 'Les Templiers sont parmi nous', Lhomoy tried again to resume his search; some journalists accompanied him along the passage where he claimed the secret entrance to the basement was to be found. They found it closed. Lhomoy explained that, after all the years in between, the door was probably stuck, and would need to be forced, but his claim was not well received. The excavation was shut down, and the case definitively closed.

The Forgotten Crypt.

Did Lhomoy (who died a poor man in 1974) indeed see the crypt, or had he invented the story? Jean Markale, author of 'Gisors et l'enigme des Templiers': 'Gisors and the enigma of the Templars', believed that Lhomoy was a pathetic, obsessed man suffering from delusions, and the local authorities had acted correctly in preventing excavations that would have needlessly compromised the structure and stability of the castle. Gerard de Sede, on the contrary, felt that Lhomoy was the victim of a conspiracy, whose objective was to hide from the eyes of the world a priceless and sacred secret: in the crypt of Gisors, de Sede contended, was no less a treasure than the Holy Grail itself.'

"Pretty wild", Gabriel commented, shutting the book and putting it down. "We'd better get going."

The town hall was packed when Gabriel and Grace got there. Vladimir Tornenkov had apparently been popular in Gisors, judging by the turn out at his memorial service. On the other hand, the number of cars parked outside indicated that quite a few people had come from out of town to pay their respects.

Gabriel entered the hall, and noticed Michael waving. They went over to join him. A middle aged lady was just concluding her speech.

"That's the mayor," Michael whispered.

Then a striking figure stood up from the front row of seats. Tall, slender, he moved with feline grace to the podium. An audible sigh went through the audience.

"Oh, glory!" Grace exclaimed. "What an incredible man!"

Gabriel had to agree. The man standing in front of them was stunning. A magnificent mane of deep red hair crowned classically perfect features. But the face transcended mere beauty. The weight of knowledge sat gracefully on the high brow, and a sensitive, sculpted mouth softened the effect of the straight, austere nose. Most arresting of all, a species of ageless fire lit the deep green eyes from within: the effect was... unforgettable.

"How art thou fallen from heaven, O Lucifer, son of the morning," Michael quoted softly.

"Yes, of course," Grace murmured. It was the face of a fallen angel. Beauty, power, and the knowledge of damnation.

The voice that filled the hall was as wonderful as the appearance of the speaker. Deep and musical, the tones were filled with grief that even Gabriel understood, despite his lack of comprehension of the language. When the brief speech ended, many of the listeners were in tears.

"Who is that?" Gabriel asked, as the speaker moved back to the seats.

"Lucien Laroche," Michael replied. "Tornenkov's best friend and partner. They performed together at concerts all the time. Laroche is a violinist, one of the best."

The ceremony seemed to have ended with Laroche's poignant speech, because everyone began to file out. The mayor and a few people remained, standing around the plaque that had been unveiled in Tornenkov's honour. Laroche was among them.

Michael walked up toward the group, followed by Gabriel and Grace.

"Monsieur St.Clair," the mayor greeted him in subdued tones. "Quel plaisir de vous revoir."

"I wish it could have been in better circumstances," Michael said in English. "My sincere condolences, Monsieur Laroche. A great loss."

"Thank you." Lucien Laroche was even more overwhelming at close range. His charisma was almost a physical thing, drawing attention, male and female, like a magnet. Even in the sombre atmosphere of a wake, he was a compellingly seductive presence.

Holy wow! Grace thought. Oh momma, buy me one of those!

Almost as if he had heard her thoughts, the green eyes swivelled to meet hers. She dropped her own gaze, embarrassed.

"Michael St. Clair, is it not?" Laroche enquired smoothly. His English was excellent. "I'm a great admirer of your work."

"The admiration is mutual," Michael said. "May I present my friends, Gabriel Knight and Grace Nakimura?"

"Mr.Knight," he nodded. "Ms.Nakimura." His eyes were warmly appraising as they moved swiftly over the two of them, lingering briefly on Grace...

"I am honoured to meet two such patrons of the arts," Laroche continued. "You co-produced the lost Wagner Opera when it was first performed at the Wittelsbacher theater, I believe. An immeasurable contribution to the world of music. I'm fascinated by the mystery: how in the world did you manage to find the work after all these years?"

"It's a long story," Grace said lightly.

"The best kind," he responded. "Perhaps you will tell it to me some time?"

"We were very sorry to hear about Monsieur Tornenkov's death," Gabriel cut in, when Grace hesitated over her answer. "It must be difficult for you."

"It is, Mr. Knight. He was my dearest friend."

A beautiful brunette woman moved past them to lay a single white rose at the foot of the plaque. Laroche turned slightly to address her.

"Ah, Claire, cherie. How good of you to come."

She threw him a quick angry look, her face a mask of dislike tinged with fear. "He was my friend, Lucien. Regardless of how I feel about you, Vlad has always been dear to me."

"And must you hate me so much, ma belle? It wasn't always like this...Oh, don't hit me, it would shock our guests," he said, intercepting the slap that she aimed at his face. Holding her wrist, he pulled her to stand unwillingly beside him.

"I would like all of you to meet Claire Desmoulins. One of France's greatest flautists. Vladimir adored her. I still do." The dark haired girl tried to pull away from him, but his grip didn't falter. "Now Claire, let me present Michael St. Clair. I know you love his paintings."

Michael held his hand out politely to the white-faced woman, forcing Laroche to release her imprisoned right wrist. She threw Michael a look of gratitude as he bent over her fingers, and composed herself. Laroche smiled slightly, nodding acknowledgement of Michael's adroitness.

"I am indeed very pleased to meet you, Monsieur. Your 'L'etranger a la plage' is the pride of my collection."

"The pleasure is mine, Mam'selle Desmoulins. May I present my friends, Gabriel Knight and ..."

"Grace Nakimura, of course!" the flautist exclaimed excitedly. "I saw your production of 'Der Fluch des Engelhart' in Munich! Wonderful!"

"It's a wonderful work," Gabriel said. "We were lucky to have the opportunity to be associated with it." In more ways than one, he thought. Wagner's genius had helped redeem him from one of the worst nightmares of his life.

"Well, it was very nice to meet you all," Claire Desmoulins said. Glaring at Laroche, she stepped away from him. "Unfortunately, I cannot stay. Perhaps if you are ever in Paris, you will look me up? Here's my card," she said, handing one to Gabriel. "Au revoir."

"We must be going, too, Monsieur Laroche," Michael interjected, glancing at his watch. "I'm taking Grace out to dinner, Gabriel. Would you like to join us?"

Oh yeah, right, Gabriel thought sourly. I should take you up on that. "No, I think I'll pass, Michael. The two of you go ahead."

He followed slowly as they walked out of the town hall. He fingered his tape recorder absently, lost in his own disgruntled thoughts. So much so that he absently wandered right on to the road, and only came back to himself at the screeching of brakes as a fire engine red sports car pulled to a halt inches from him.

"Espece de connard! J'ai failli te renverser!" an angry female voice spat at him.

"Uh, excuse me?" Gabriel stammered, as a spectacular blond climbed out of the car.

"I said," she promptly translated, "You stupid bastard, I almost ran you over!"

"I'm terribly sorry," Gabriel apologised. "It was my fault. I wasn't looking where I was going." He put on the appealing look that he knew won him female sympathy.

It seemed this particular female was no less susceptible than most. Her eyes softened, especially after she looked properly at him. "I suppose I should make allowances for a visiting foreigner," she said, with a hint of mockery.

"A distinguished visitor, darling," Laroche's voice said from behind them. "Mr. Gabriel Knight is a famous writer and a patron of the arts."

"Lucien!" The blond's face lit up, and she moved to kiss him. It was Laroche who pulled away after a prolonged embrace, and turned to Gabriel with an arm still around her.

"Mr.Knight, the lovely maniac who almost killed you just now is Nicole Barrat. Nico, darling, we cannot have you running over people in this ridiculously profligate fashion. So tasteless. I think you gave Mr.Knight the scare of his life."

"It was my fault," Gabriel repeated. "Worth it, too, since I got to meet you, Mademoiselle Barrat."

"How gallant. You must call me Nicole. 'Gabriel'," she repeated, smiling flirtatiously at him. She gave him a slow once-over and her smile grew. "The Archangel who drove Adam and Eve out of Eden with his flaming sword?"

"That was the other guy," Gabriel said, grinning. "I happen to believe the pen is mightier than the sword; anyway, a pen is easier to lift," he said, flexing his arm with a humorous look at his biceps.

She stepped out of Laroche's encircling arm towards him, and ran a casual hand up and down his arm. "I don't know," she said lazily, looking up at him through her eyelashes. "I think you could handle a sword without too much difficulty."

Gabriel glanced at Laroche, wondering what he was making of his lady friend's provocative behaviour. The violinist was wearing a faintly amused smile, and seemed quite unconcerned.

"So you are a patron of the arts? Does that include dance, Gabriel?" Nicole drew his attention back, fingering the lapel of his jacket idly.

"I'm afraid I'm an amateur," he disclaimed, with a charming smile. "I did co-produce an opera last year..."

"Really? How interesting." Her sultry voice invested the words with meaning beyond their face value.

"Nicole is very a gifted dancer, Mr. Knight. Her interpretation of Salome's 'Dance of the Seven Veils' was featured at the Festival at Avignon last year." Laroche intersposed.

"That's fascinating. I'd love to watch you perform some time, Nicole."

"Hmm. How sweet. And to think I almost ran you down! I think I should make it up to you. Dinner, perhaps?"

Hey, the evening's looking up, Gabriel thought. All right!

"It would be my pleasure, except that I insist on buying *you* dinner."

"Then I pick the restaurant," she said, smiling. "See you later, darling," she waved casually in Laroche's direction.

**********************************

'Le Bec Fin' was a quiet and unpretentious restaurant that served only French cuisine. The food was marvellous, the wine sublime. The restful atmosphere and two glasses of an excellent Sancerre had relaxed Grace considerably, and put her in a confiding mood.

"...and he changed his mind about my coming along on this trip, finally. You know, Gabriel can be such a chauvinist; he has a lot of difficulty dealing with strong women. In fact, he's pretty medieval! When I think of all the bimbos he used to hang out with in New Orleans...!" She grimaced at the recollection.

"And it really irritates me when he treats me like some kid running errands for him. There are times I feel he doesn't appreciate me at all!"

"I would appreciate you. Always." Michael said softly.

Startled, Grace looked up to find a very disconcerting expression in the dark eyes that stared into hers. She flushed and found herself stammering like a schoolgirl.

"I didn't mean... I wasn't..."

"Grace." Michael interrupted her confused words. "When this is over, would you consider staying?"

"Here in France?" she blurted.

"With me. In France, or Spain, or wherever you like."

The air was heavy with everything he had left unspoken. But then, Grace thought wildly, he doesn't need words. How is it that I understand him so well, when I only met him a couple of days ago? After two years, Gabriel is still a mystery to me in so many ways, but with Michael...

"No strings, Grace. I know you need time to... I won't rush you. Just as a partner to begin with?" Michael said seriously. "You did say you came to Europe because you wanted to do something meaningful, to make a difference. What I do, what I am, is very like the Schattenjagers. You could share that..."

"I don't know, Michael," Grace said slowly, putting her hands up to her burning cheeks to cool them. She stopped, not knowing what to say. "I can't just..."

"It's Gabriel," Michael said matter-of-factly. "Isn't it?" he smiled, when she looked sharply at him.

"No!" Then, "Yes... no. It's so hard to explain," she sighed.

"Don't answer me now," he said. "Promise me you'll think about it?" he asked, his eyes warm and pleading.

"All right. I promise," she agreed.

**********************************

Gabriel walked slowly up to his bedroom at the St.Clair house, wondering if there was something wrong with him. He had enjoyed a fantastic dinner in the company of a beautiful and sensual woman who had made it quite clear that she would not object to his attentions, and he had tamely left her at the door of her hotel room, pleading exhaustion.

Somehow, he had felt uneasy at the thought of a more intimate association with Nicole Barrat, despite the fact that she was very definitely a walking male fantasy. A year ago, Gabriel would have leapt at the luscious bait that was dangled so temptingly in front of him. So what was different now? Maybe it was all that wine, he thought. He definitely felt a little woozy.

He noticed in passing that both Michael's and Grace's rooms were dark, but a light still burned in Father Jean's room. Michael's car had been parked in its usual spot, so they must have returned from dinner before he did. Hesitating for a moment outside Grace's door, he changed his mind and walked straight to his own guest room.

Undressing and lying down, he stared at the starry sky that was visible through the tall window and drifted off...

A woman entered through the darkened doorway that led to the main room of St.George's Books. Surely he knew that sinuous walk and that graceful body?

"Malia," he sighed, as she drew closer.

"Don't speak," she said, climbing on to the bed beside him. She reached out to touch the Talisman that rested on his chest. Leaning down to kiss him, she drew the chain that hung around his neck over his head, releasing it, and placed the Talisman on the bedside table.

Slowly, she withdrew from him and stood up.

"Malia?" he mumured protestingly, puzzled.

"Come," the red-clad figure commanded softly. She walked silently out of the room. He rose to follow, dreamily wondering where she was leading him.

**********************************

"Gabriel!" Grace sat up abruptly in bed, awakening from a disturbing dream. Still disoriented, she was brought to full consciousness by footsteps in the passage outside. Getting up and pulling on her robe, she decided to investigate. When she opened her door, the passage was empty. Looking down it, she noticed that Gabriel's door was ajar. She ran quickly to his room, and switched on the light to see that the bed was empty. With a sudden chill, she noticed the Talisman lying on the bedside table.

Downstairs, the front door swung open and shut. Rushing to the window, she saw Gabriel, shirtless, walking out of the house. She called his name, but he didn't seem to hear her. Her heart contracted with fear as she noticed his gaze, strangely fixed on the emptiness before him as though he saw an invisible presence leading him. Quickly grabbing the Talisman and the flashlight that lay beside it, she ran down to follow him.

Gabriel followed the female figure out into... Jackson Square? he thought, vaguely. What are we doing here? She stopped and turned to face him, arms held out enticingly. She slowly sank down to kneel on the soft grass, still beckoning irresistibly. He walked forward to join her...

Grace, about a hundred meters behind Gabriel, watched, as he stopped and sank to his knees in an open field. With a thrill of fear and horror, she realized that a shadowy figure was approaching him, with a weapon poised in its hand. She ran desperately towards Gabriel, praying she would be in time...

Gabriel bent to hear the words that the dark-haired woman whispered to him. Just as he reached out to touch her, a desperate cry brought him sharply awake -- "Gabriel! No!" Something hit him violently in the side, sending him sprawling, away from his kneeling position. He fought to catch his breath, feeling the weight that had landed on him shift away. When his eyes cleared, he distinguished a familiar shape standing in a defensive half crouch, back facing him: Grace. Why had she tackled him? he wondered dazedly.

Looking up, he froze at the sight that confronted him. A tall dark apparition stood before them in a menacing pose, with a long, sharp, and nasty looking knife poised to strike! And the face of the creature: his throat went dry with terror as he looked into the face of evil itself. It was a fearsome mask, twisted like a gargoyle. But worst of all were the eyes: for they were entirely human. Grace stood between him and the creature, poised like a lioness defending her young. She held his Talisman up to ward off the enemy, with defiance written in every inch of her.

Gabriel scrambled to his feet to join her. Despite Grace's brave pose, he could feel her trembling. Gently, he took the Talisman from her convulsive grip and pushed her behind him. He thrust the Talisman out, as threateningly as he could. His opponent did not appear very impressed; in fact, it seemed slightly amused at his gesture. It took a further step forward, its eyes moving from him to Grace, as if debating which to choose for its first victim. The aura of menacing evil that seemed to emanate from it in thick waves grew more oppressive.

Gabriel shifted sideways to shield Grace better. The Talisman in his hand seemed to grow hotter, emitting a faint golden glow. The creature, which seemed somehow feline and inhuman in the fluidity of its movements, followed him, staying just out of arm's reach. Then suddenly it struck! and danced away quickly. Gabriel felt a sharp pain above his right elbow, and felt wetness trickling down his arm. He fought to keep his grip on the Talisman, reaching out with his left hand to push Grace further behind him. Fear and pain were making him increasingly desperate.

Then a welcome presence loomed up out of the darkness beside him. "Vade retro, Iblis," Michael said firmly to the creature, his own Seal glowing like a miniature sun in his hand.

The cavalry made it on time! I'm going to put that guy up for sainthood, Gabriel thought wildly. He's earned it!

Warily, the Slasher retreated a few steps. Then it spoke for the first time. In English, as if it knew that it was the one language all three humans understood. Its voice hissed unpleasantly, with an eerie reptilian hollowness.

"I know you, mortal. My Enemy. I know the flavour of your putridly strong will. I recognise the stench of your sickening, incorruptible soul. But you will not take these two from me", it said, gesturing at Grace and Gabriel.

Michael did not reply. Instead, never taking his eyes from the creature, he moved to take Grace's hand and put it firmly in Gabriel's. "Don't be afraid", he said calmly. "Fear is its weapon. It can't touch you while you hold the Key. Don't let it go."

"No!" The demonic shape rasped, as Michael began a series of intricate gestures with the hand that held the Seal. It recoiled as he intoned in a clear voice, "In the name of Mithras, Lord of Truth, Light of the world, I banish evil." He traced a cross in the air, saying, "In the four cardinal directions, His Wisdom, His Power, His Light, His Healing; and above us all, His Truth!" He held the Seal up above his head. Then slowly, he traced a circle around Gabriel and Grace. To their awed eyes, he seemed to be glowing faintly. So that that's what he's really like, Gabriel thought dazedly. Now I know...

Then Michael stepped threateningly forward toward the demon. He started an ominous sounding chant, in a language neither Gabriel nor Grace understood.

"No," the dreadful apparition shrieked, backing away. Then, with one swift and terrible movement, its arm snapped forward, throwing the knife, which impacted with sickening force in Michael's chest. The demon snarled in satisfaction, while Grace cried out. Gabriel took a reflexive step forward, anger overcoming the fear that had held him paralysed. Michael stumbled, grabbing the hilt that protruded obscenely from the wound in his chest, but managed to choke out the closing words of his incantation as he fell: "...Mithrae Invicto!"

The demonic entity fled, with an angry howl that faded into the night. Gabriel and Grace rushed forward to Michael's side. Gabriel took one look at the blood that seemed to fountain up out of the prone man's body, and turned to bark urgent words at Grace. "Go for help, Gracie, call an ambulance!" After an appalled moment, when she stared wide-eyed at the wounded man, she ran towards the farmhouse.

Gabriel knelt down, frantically trying to recall his rudimentary knowledge of first aid. Put pressure on the wound, he thought. The knife seemed to have been dislodged by Michael's fall, unless the wounded man had pulled it out himself as a reflex. Swearing luridly to himself, Gabriel jammed his own hand over Michael's own on top of the terrible gaping hole he could see beneath the scarlet ruin of the shirt he wore.

"Shit, Michael, don't you goddam die on me! Michael?! Michael! Stay awake, dammit," he growled frantically.

"I'm awake, Gabriel," a thin whisper assured him.

"Help is on the way, man, you're going to be OK," Gabriel said, more softly, as calmly as he could.

"Gabriel, you have to stop him. You must stop Iblis," Michael insisted in a hoarse voice. "You'll need this." He pushed the Seal weakly at Gabriel.

Gabriel stared incredulously at him.

"Take it," Michael said again. "Find St.George's sword. Kill the demon," his voice a mere thread of sound.

"Michael, no! I can't take your Seal, I've had enough trouble with my own family's Talisman!" he said. "You're going to be fine, you're St.George's heir, not me!" he ended, his voice rising in increasing anxiety.

"I deputise you, then," Michael said, actually managing a smile through the agony he was surely going through. "Call it a temporary loan. I'll be around to collect," he said feebly, the smile turning into a weak chuckle that died quickly into coughs. He slipped into unconsciouness, his head lolling back weakly, like a spent rag doll.

Dammit, where's that ambulance, Gabriel thought desperately. If he loses much more blood...! Then Father Jean appeared and knelt next to him, taking over with gentle and capable hands.

"The ambulance is on its way, Gabriel. Here, let me."

He spoke softly to Michael in French, putting a thick pad on the wound and binding it. Gabriel stumbled to his feet, Talisman in one hand, Seal in the other. Both were sticky with blood, Michael's and his own. He stared down at Michael, and then raised his eyes to the sky.

Help me! he pleaded silently, tears of helpless rage coursing down his face. Straightening, he made a silent oath into the clear night air. Iblis, you fucking SOB, you're going to pay for this!

**********************************

   [1]: http://www.geocities.com/maya_ar/myfic.html#IBDIDN Index



	6. Hunt

**[In Brightest Day, In Darkest Night...][1]**   
**[A Gabriel Knight Mystery][1]**

**Chapter 5**

**_"Beyond this place of wrath and tears_**   
**_Looms but the horror of the shade,_**   
**_And yet the menace of the years_**   
**_Finds and shall find me unafraid._**

**_It matters not how strait the gate,_**   
**_How charged with punishment the scroll,_**   
**_I am the master of my fate:_**   
**_I am the captain of my soul."_**

**_-- William Ernest Henley_**

**********************************

**_*Saturday, 21 June*_**

Dawn came, fingers of roseate light leaping over the waiting French countryside; but the morning after could not brighten the macabre events of the night before. The mood in the hospital waiting room was sombre, where three perturbed people anxiously debated their next course of action. Father Jean was steady as a rock, his serenity creating an oasis of calm in the midst of madness for Gabriel and Grace during the chaos of the last few hours. They had just seen Michael wheeled out of the operating room into an intensive care ward, where he now lay unconscious, after emergency surgery to save his life. The young surgeon in charge of the case had told them that the knife had missed his heart narrowly, puncturing a lung. The operation had been successful, but the next 48 hours were critical.

The police had swarmed all around the farm the previous night, asking repetitive questions which irritated Gabriel to distraction. Fortunately, his own wound had needed medical attention, and Father Jean had persuaded the police to leave him alone. Commissaire Dernaud had appeared, and after a mercifully short interview on the way to the hospital, had driven back to the scene of the attempted murder.

The story they had told was that Gabriel had been investigating suspicious movements in the field outside the St.Clair house, and had surprised an intruder. When Grace and Michael had appeared, the intruder attacked Gabriel, and when Michael intervened, the unknown trespasser had thrown the knife at him. In the subsequent confusion, the attacker had made his escape. No, sorry, neither Gabriel nor Grace had seen the man's face in the darkness. Yes, he was tall, about six feet. Oh, right, you follow the metric system: let's see, that would be about 1.8 metres. He was dressed in dark clothing. No, he didn't say anything. Sorry, there's nothing else we can tell you.

"Gabriel? Gabriel!" Father Jean's voice woke him from the reverie he had dropped into.

"Sorry. Yeah?"

"You say that Michael seemed to recognise the demon you saw last night?"

"He called it "Iblis'. Does that mean anything?"

"Iblis." Father Jean exhaled slowly. "I'm not certain. You see, that's an Arabic name for 'demon' or 'devil.' It's sometimes used in the same sense that a Christian would say 'Satan'."

"Well, whatever it was, it certainly recognised Michael. And it knew these," Gabriel said heavily, drawing his Talisman and the St.Clair Seal out of his jacket pocket.

"With Michael injured, it's up to us to stop this Iblis, whatever he is!" Grace declared fiercely. "He can't be allowed to go on like this!"

"You are right, Grace. But how?" Father Jean asked pensively. "I'm afraid that Michael, as the Champion of Light, knew many things that I do not."

"He said we had to find St.George's sword. That's why he gave me his Seal." Gabriel was conscious of Grace's troubled gaze on him as he spoke. He turned to her. "Look, I don't have much of a choice here, Gracie. Not after what's happened."

"Gabriel..." She hesitated. "Last night, when you walked out and left your Talisman behind..."

Suddenly furious, he bit his words out with exaggerated care. "I told you, I was really light-headed from the wine! I think that's why I was sleep-walking."

They were interrupted by a white clad orderly. "Mr.Knight?"

"Yeah?"

"Dr.Bernard would like to see you."

Dr.Julie Bernard was the surgeon who had operated on Michael. She was seated in her office, with an open file in front of her when Gabriel entered. "Please, sit down, Mr.Knight. How is your arm?"

"OK, thanks. One of your people gave me a shot for the pain. You wanted to see me?"

"Yes. I have the results of a blood test that was performed on you when you were brought here. May I ask if you had indulged in any... stimulants, last night?"

"Just a couple of glasses of wine, is all," Gabriel replied, puzzled.

"Nothing else?" she persisted, looking narrowly at him.

"Yeah, why do you ask?"

"Mr.Knight, the results of the test show the presence of a psychedelic substance related to LSD, possibly an ergot derivative, in your blood stream. By the level of absorption, I would say it had been ingested around 10:00 p.m last night, say, with dinner? Under the circumstances..."

"You mean a drug?" Gabriel asked disbelievingly. "I never..." his words trailed off slowly as he remembered that dinner with Nicole Barrat. She had kept forcing more wine on him, and she would have had plenty of opportunity to slip something into one of those drinks... But why?

"Mr. Knight." Dr.Bernard's voice cut off his speculations. "It is dangerous to experiment with hallucinogens; and my advice to you is to avoid anything of the kind in future. I have known fatalities to ensue from irresponsible attempts to 'trip' on mushroom or ergot derivatives."

"Uh, thanks, Doc. I'll keep that in mind."

When Grace and Father Jean heard about the blood test, their concern turned quickly to speculation. It was Father Jean who spoke first.

"I have heard that such drugs can be used to make a subject more susceptible to manipulation, through hypnosis or mental coercion. This Nicole Barrat, you say she is a friend of Lucien Laroche?"

"More than a friend, I'd say. And she would definitely have known Tornenkov, too."

Grace took it a step further. "The police said all the victims seem to have walked into the country of their own will, and none of them seemed to have struggled, right? So maybe they were drugged too!"

"Maybe. I think I'd like to find out more about Ms.Barrat, and this Laroche character too. Think I'll drive to Paris, visit Claire Desmoulins," Gabriel drawled, pulling out a card from his pocket.

"What about this demon-possession stuff? And St.George's treasure? We need to figure some stuff out."

"Yeah. Gracie, you know that stuff you researched on the Serpent Cult? About the possessed person needing a physical object, a focus, to maintain the demon's possession? Maybe you should look into that."

"I will. And I'll work on translating the map we found in the St.Clair vault. I'm sure it's the key to finding St.George's sword!"

"I shall do my best to assist you, Grace. I think we should start by returning to the farm. And perhaps Gabriel, you could get that peculiar substance you found at the scene of Tornenkov's murder analysed while you are in Paris?"

**********************************

Outside the farm, the police had taped off the area where the previous night's attack had occurred. There were still several people around, so Gabriel decided to avoid the spot till later. He got into Michael's car and drove out as inconspicuously as possible.

The drive to Paris was short and uneventful. Following the map in Michael's car, Gabriel soon found himself in front of a nondescript building that housed a laboratory run by a former student of Jean Gerard's. He made a quick stop to request an analysis of the strange dark brown cystalline substance he had found in the field where Tornenkov's body had been found. After reading the letter provided by Father Jean, the young chemist had agreed to have the results for him in an hour.

Gabriel's next stop was a quietly luxurious apartment in the 16th arrondissement.

Seated in the plush living room of Claire Desmoulin's apartment, Gabriel sipped the coffee she had offered him, and wondered where to begin.

"I'm sorry to have intruded on you so soon, Mam'selle Desmoulins, but I really would appreciate your help. You see, Michael St.Clair, you met him yesterday, was attacked last night; he's in hospital."

"My God, how is he?" she asked, with quick concern.

"We don't know yet. Doctors say, if he doesn't recover consciousness within the next two days... Anyway, the one who stabbed him, we think it may have been the same guy who killed your friend, Vladimir Tornenkov."

"That's horrible! I hope the police catch him soon. But how can I help you, Mr.Knight?"

"I was hoping you could tell me something about the people he had dinner with that last night; you know, his friends?"

"Vlad's friends." The beautiful flautist sighed. "You mean Lucien Laroche."

"Anything you could tell me, Ms. Desmoulins..."

"Claire, please. I don't know what to tell you, Mr.Knight. Vlad was close to Lucien, they've been partners for many years. As you may have noticed yesterday, I am no longer on good terms with Lucien."

"Please call me Gabriel, Claire. You said you're no longer on good terms with him? Then you were once close to him."

"Yes. Very close. " Her voice was bitter with recollection. "I used to live with him. I was young and foolish, and thought I was in love."

"I'm sorry. What happened?" Gabriel asked gently.

"I left him. He would be utterly charming one day and the next, he would act so bizarrely, so cruelly. It was as if he wanted to hurt me, to drive me away. I couldn't stand it any more. Vlad was so unhappy, torn between us. You see, we were both his friends. Vlad was the gentlest man..."

"Must have been hard. But he continued to perform with Laroche after that?"

"Oh yes. Lucien was careful never to do anything to alienate Vlad. I think he loved Vlad, as much as that strange, cold man can love anyone. To hear the two of them perform together: it was magic. They could bring the music alive, it would haunt you for days after you heard it. There was something uncanny about it, something not quite of our world. Here, let me show you," she said, getting up and sliding a CD into the player that sat in a corner. Gabriel inserted a fresh tape in his recorder.

The liquid tones of a piano filled the room, joined by the plaintive voice of a violin. The music was eerie, sending shivers down Gabriel's spine, calling up phantoms, conjuring dark chimeras from the subconscious to dance almost visibly in front of him.

Claire turned it off, watching his face. "Yes, I can see you feel it too. That was their speciality, 'Danse Macabre' by Camille de St.Saens. Lucien loved playing that. He used to say it was his private joke against the whole world."

"Claire, I've heard rumours that Laroche uses drugs? Is that true?"

"Drugs? I don't know about Lucien. He never used to. Though it's quite common in theatrical and musical circles. A lot of Lucien's crowd abuses cocaine, I know. Also LSD, marijuana, some exotics; you know, psychedelics? Nicole Barrat, Alain Meunier, quite a few of them are into that. Alain said that Lucien had introduced him to a fantastic new supplier, Christian something."

Gabriel sat up. "Christian Lemaitre?"

"Yes, that's it, Lemaitre. Ratty looking man, quite disgusting. He would hang around at the parties, smarming up to everyone." She shrugged contemptuously.

"Claire. Christian Lemaitre was one of the vistims of the Slasher," Gabriel explained quietly.

She went still with shock. "What?" she gasped.

"Are you sure it was Laroche who introduced him to your friends?"

"That's what Alain said," she replied absently, still taken aback by the information. "What was that utterly insignificant man doing in Gisors?"

"That's what I'd like to know," Gabriel said grimly. "Claire, have you also heard of someone named Cesar Capelli?"

"Capelli, Capelli... the name seems familiar, but I can't quite... wait, there was a quiet man at a party once. Italian looking. He didn't talk much. It was after a concert. I remember thinking he looked really out of place there. But he was obviously very impressed with Lucien. Like everyone else," she added dryly.

"Do you think you'd recognise a photograph of him?"

"It's possible. I'm not sure. It's been a year since that party, and I only noticed him because he was so different from everyone else there..."

Gabriel got up, suddenly in a hurry. Laroche! Laroche was the common factor. "Claire, thank you. You've been a real help!" he said, impulsively kissing her cheek.

"If you say so, Gabriel," she said, surprised. "If there's anything else I can do, please let me know. I hope we can get together under less difficult circumstances; I'd love to hear about the Wagner opera..."

"I hope so too; though Grace is the expert on Wagner!"

Sitting in the car, waiting at an intersection, Gabriel drummed his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel. The clues were there: but the whole picture was just eluding him...

The chemist's report was concise and informative. The substance he had found was definitely some sort of incense. It was not of a standard variety, and had probably been specially made up. The chemist had directed Gabriel to a shop that specialised in selling incenses and other exotic goods of that kind.

"Les Tziganes" the sign said. Gabriel walked into the dimly lit store, that was vaguely reminiscent of a gypsy fortune-teller's room. The impression was heightened by the lady who stood behind the counter. Thin, dark, with a red scarf tied over her graying hair, and a silver crucifix hanging around her neck, if she wasn't a gypsy, she was certainly dressing the part well.

"Bonjour. Vous voudrais..."

"Excuse me, do you speak English?"

"Yes, some. What is it you seek?"

"Uh, I heard that you stock incense?"

"Yes, what kind would you like?"

"Like this, maybe?" Gabriel said, pulling out the fragment he had retrieved from the chemist. The woman accepted the sample and held it to her nose. Then she gave the piece a close look.

"No," she said. "We don't have this. Where you did you get it?"

"Picked it up at a friend's place," Gabriel said vaguely. "Liked the smell, so I thought I'd get some."

"You should ask your friend then, M'sieur. This is a specially made blend." She looked slightly perplexed. "Nothing I've seen. We do get requests from the, how you say, New Age groups, for special blended incenses; they use them in their rituals. But I've never seen this before."

"Thanks, anyway," Gabriel nodded, and started to leave.

"M'sieur!" the woman exclaimed. When he turned to look, she had a strange, unfocussed look in her eyes. She made the sign of the cross over him, saying, "Be careful. Something dark awaits you. But faith is powerful..."

"What?" Gabriel asked, mystified.

"I don't know, m'sieur," she said, eyeing him with a peculiar expression. In the doorway where he stood, half in and half out of the shop, a halo of sunlight shone around Gabriel's blond head. "Perhaps you should leave now."

"On my way out," he shrugged. "Thanks again."

**********************************

Grace wore a forbidding scowl of concentration as she worked on translating the hand-drawn map that had lain in the vault below the St.Clair farmhouse for nearly 900 years. The words were clear enough, but the meaning was enigmatic. The Latin incription 'Verbum sapienti sat est' -- 'A word to the wise suffices', was written in large letters across the top of the scroll.

"'This word means trap or obstacle; what's this, 'The treacherous pit awaits the false step'. What the h*ll is that supposed to mean? Is this a map or a riddle?" she muttered.

Father Jean entered, carrying a brown-wrapped package. "This just arrived in the mail," he said, holding it out.

"It's from Gerde! She said she was sending me Wolfgang's notes!" She opened the package excitedly.

"Hmm...Templars, Crusades, St.John's Eve...", she said aloud, skimming through the pages. "Wait a minute: what's this about Saint John's Eve?"

'The tradition of lighting bonfires and conducting special prayers on 23 June, the Eve of St.John, and on the next day, the Feast of Saint John, was an important part of the rituals of the Order of the Temple, as well as of the Order of the Knights of St.John. This tradition was followed in every country that the Templars established themselves: in Europe, bonfires were lit in the chapterhouses of France, Germany, Portugal, Spain, England, Scotland; it seems to have been an extremely important festival to the Order. In my native Bavaria, the Ritters too have continued to light the need-fires, with the people of Rittersberg joining in; it is said that the sacred fires serve to drive away dragons. I have found similar beliefs in the peasantry of France, Scotland, and Spain.'

"St.John's Eve," Grace repeated thoughtfully. "That's the day after tomorrow!' She turned to Father Jean. "You know, Father, Gabriel and I had a pretty harrowing experience with the followers of the Voodoun snake god Damballah on St.John's Eve a couple of years ago..."

"I'm not surprised, Grace. It is a very significant time of year, the summer solstice. You see, that day is the great turning point in our year, when after climbing higher and higher, day by day, in the sky, the Sun begins his downward path in the sky, and the days begin to shorten. To Mithrans, it is a time of prayer and renewal of oaths; we light the sacred fire outside the Mithraeum, and pledge to dedicate ourselves to the fight against evil." He paused. His lined face grew stark with distaste.

"But also, to the followers of darker faiths, this is an important time. A time for sacrifices. The Cult of the Serpent, for instance, believes that the summer solstice marks the start of the ascendancy of Darkness over Light. They believe that a human sacrifice at this time generates enormous power, so that the Serpent confers special favours on the sacrificers."

"You mean, these murders may have been timed to coincide with the Eve of St.John?" Grace asked, comprehension dawning.

"I think it is probable," he nodded.

"But the murders have all been committed on weekends! And 23 June is Monday!"

"Grace, from what we know of the third stage of the Greater Ritual of the Cult, in order to invoke the Serpent physically into our world, they would need to make six human sacrifices; not counting the attempted murder last night, there have been four 'slasher' killings so far."

"So," Grace added slowly, "That would mean one more murder this weekend, and the final one on St.John's Eve?"

"That is my surmise," Father Jean assented. "How is the translation going?" he enquired, as an apparent non sequitur.

"The *translation* is going fine. But the map still doesn't make sense to me! There's all this cryptic stuff about traps and hidden paths..."

"Let me see," he said, coming around to stand at her shoulder. "This looks to me like a description of how to reach a hidden Mithraeum. It is obviously subterranean, and if it was constructed in the Middle Ages, no doubt the traps were to keep out the uninitiated. Officially, Mithraism was banned, so the builders would have gone to some trouble to ensure that the secret was safe. Especially if this particular Mithraeum also contained Ascalon, the legendary flaming sword of St.George himself!"

"That makes sense, I guess. But what are these traps? And where is the entrance to this maze, anyway? The map doesn't say!"

"I'm afraid I am no wiser than you on those points, Grace. Let us hope that He who illuminates the world will also enlighten us!"

**********************************

Gabriel drove past the St.Gervais Cathedral in Gisors and turned right. He pulled to a halt outside a three storey building set in the middle of a green little park. The phone book had this luxury apartment block listed as Lucien Laroche's address.

When Gabriel walked into the lobby, he was stopped by a uniformed concierge. "I'm here to vist Monsieur Lucien Laroche," he explained.

"Are you expected, Monsieur?" the concierge asked, with a doubtful look at his battered leather jacket and jeans.

"Not exactly," Gabriel admitted. "We met yesterday at the memorial service, and he did ask me to drop in some time," he added mendaciously.

"And you are...?"

"Knight. Gabriel Knight. This is my card," he said, proferring one.

"Just a moment, please." The concierge picked up the intercom and dialed a three digit number. "Monsieur Laroche? There is a Mr.Gabriel Knight to see you." He paused to listen. "Yes, Monsieur." He turned back to Gabriel. "Mr.Laroche will receive you. Apartment 3A."

Glancing at the letter boxes behind the concierge's desk, Gabriel noticed that the one for apartment 3B was marked 'V.Tornenkov'.

"So this where Vladimir used to live, huh?" he asked, guilelessly.

"You knew Monsieur Tornenkov, sir?"

"No, not really, but I know a friend of his, Claire Desmoulins. She was pretty close to him."

"Ah, yes, Mlle. Desmoulins used to come here often. A great pity," the stocky man said, shaking his head sadly. "M. Tornenkov was a true artist."

"Yeah, very tragic," Gabriel agreed. "The elevator's this way?"

Lucien Laroche opened the door to admit Gabriel into a richly embellished hall, all black metal furniture and red upholstery. Carefully selected modernistic bric-a-brac adorned various corners. A faint, sweet odour permeated the room, emanating apparently from a shallow, smoking censer in an alcove. Laroche himself, dramatically handsome in stark black, was the carefully orchestrated center piece in this decadent decorator's dream. Who does this guy think he is, Aleister Crowley? Gabriel thought derisively.

"Mr.Knight," Laroche greeted him urbanely. "What an unexpected pleasure." Was that a hint of mockery in the green eyes?

"I'm sorry to intrude on you, Mr.Laroche, but I was sort of hoping you'd be able to help me," Gabriel drawled in his best 'dumb American tourist' manner.

An elegant eyebrow was raised in polite enquiry. "Of course, but I don't see..."

"I don't know if you've heard, but Michael St. Clair was attacked last night."

"Yes, I had, Mr.Knight. This is a small town, and news travels. I hear he's in the hospital? How is he?" The voice was all courteous sympathy.

"The doctors are cautiously optimistic," Gabriel replied, every instinct on the alert.

"Well, we must hope for the best, then." Laroche shook his magnificent red-maned head sadly, his concern apparently genuine. "When will the police catch whoever is responsible for these deplorable murders?"

"Soon, I hope. Actually, that's where I thought you could help."

"Me? I don't understand," the violinist said, with a bewildered gesture of the hands. "How are you involved with this investigation, Mr. Knight?"

Strong hands, Gabriel noticed, with long fingers.

"Uh, I'm sort of assisting them, in an unofficial capacity. I've done something like this before, so... Commisssaire Dernaud's been very kind."

"I see."

"Could you tell me what happened that night? I hear Vladimir was at a party at your house that night?"

"The police already asked about that," Laroche said, unhappily. "I told them all I could, that he seemed quite normal, cheerful, a little quiet, perhaps? He said he was was going home to bed when the other guests started leaving, and the next morning... The police seemed to think Vladimir was an unfortunate victim in a series of senseless random killings."

"Well, you know, that's the thing. I think that there's a possibility the murders aren't as random as they look," Gabriel explained, his New Orleans drawl growing more pronounced. His accent always got stronger when he was playing the sincere but slightly dense 'good ole boy'.

"Really? What makes you think that?" Laroche seemed honestly curious.

"For one thing, all the victims took an unexplained late night walk into the country; why did your friend Vladimir go out after that party?"

"I don't know!", the musician admitted, with a perplexed expression. "The guests were all leaving, and he said he would call it a night too. I heard him opening and shutting his door. I stayed up reading in my study for a while after that. The study is sound-proofed, so I wouldn't have heard him leave in any case, but the night concierge didn't see him go out, either. It's a mystery," he confessed despondently.

"Sure is. Could you tell me who else was here that night?"

"Just a few friends, Nicole Barrat, you remember her of course?"

"How could I forget?" Gabriel smiled.

"Yes, of course. Also, Alain Meunier, Solange Guitry, Vlad, and I. A small group. Alain is a composer, and Solange plays the cello, so you see, we talked shop most of the time. It was a wonderful evening," he said reminiscently.

"And Vladimir didn't seem disturbed, or anything?"

"Not at all. Believe me, if he had been in any way worried or unhappy, I would know! We were very close." His face clouded over with sudden grief. "Oh, Vlad. Why?"

The anguished question silenced Gabriel for a minute. He was willing to swear the grief and loss were absolutely sincere. Either Lucien Laroche was genuinely heartsick over the loss of his friend, or he was the world's greatest actor, he decided.

"Did you know any of the other victims? They were visitors here, the Commissaire said."

"I don't believe so," Laroche replied. "Tourists, the paper said."

"What about the French guy: Lemaitre?" Gabriel watched his face narrowly.

"Doesn't ring any bells, I'm afraid." The shrug of denial was casual. Too casual?

"Can you think of anything else that might help? Maybe Vladimir knew some of the other victims?"

"No, I don't think so. At least, he never said anything of the kind." He paused. "But you know, he used to keep an appointment diary. Would that be of any use?"

"Maybe. I'd sure like a look at it," Gabriel asked, interested.

"Right this way." Laroche rose and gestured for Gabriel to follow him. "It's in my study; I'd pointed it out to the police, and they returned it yesterday."

The study was a total contrast to the opulent hall. A warm, wood-panelled room, it was lined with crammed bookshelfs. An antique gramophone stood in a corner, beside a lovingly polished mahogany desk. A couple of worn, comfortable armchairs faced an old fashioned fireplace. Gabriel couldn't hide his surprise.

"My den," Laroche said with an amused wave. "My refuge from the tyrannies of modern life. Vlad and I used to sit in those chairs and talk the night away..."

If this room accurately reflected its owner, Gabriel thought, there was more to this man than he had thought. And somehow, he looked as much at home in this setting as he had in the outrageously hedonistic hall. Which was the real Lucien Laroche?

"Quite a collection you have here, Mr.Laroche. You read a lot?"

"The pursuit of knowledge, Mr.Knight, has always been my absorbing interest."

"Hey, 'Faust'," Gabriel exclaimed, picking up a worn leatherbound volume from the desk. "This is heavy stuff!"

"We all have our old favourites, I imagine. What do you read?"

"I like Raymond Chandler myself," Gabriel grinned.

Laroche laughed lightly. "So do I, Mr.Knight. That row," he pointed, "contains nothing but popular crime fiction. Sam Spade to Hercule Poirot: they're all there." Following the pointing finger with his eyes, Gabriel noticed a safe set in the wall.

"Shouldn't that have a painting hanging over it or something?"

"Please, acquit me of such obvious cliches! In any case, there's nothing there that would interest a common burglar. A few personal treasures, that's all. And I doubt if any ordinary thief would manage to figure out that particular lock." He laughed, as if at a private joke.

There was no visible lock at all on the door, just a handle. Gabriel stared at it, oddly preoccupied by the puzzle.

"Here," Laroche said, handing him a small black book. "This is what Vlad used to keep track of his appointments."

Gabriel leafed through it, but the entries were in French. "Mind if I hang on to this for a little while?'

"Help yourself. Would you like a drink before you go? Some wine, perhaps?"

"Sure, thanks."

"Please, make yourself comfortable." Laroche walked out of the room.

A close look at the safe revealed a peculiar feature below the door. It reminded Gabriel of a miniature microphone... He heard a footstep, and turned to face his host.

He accepted the glass of wine that was held out to him, and followed Laroche's example, sitting down.

"You know, I was listening to a recording of one of your performances with Vladimir. 'Danse Macabre'. That was your speciality, wasn't it?"

"Yes, it was. An idiosyncrasy of mine. I like the symbolism, the reminder that death is part of human life. Isn't it odd, the moment a man steps into this world, he begins to die. Yet humans think of themselves as such significant beings, with the power to shake the world!"

"Never looked at it that way before," Gabriel commented.

"Well, ars longa, vita brevis."

"Excuse me?"

"'Art is long, but life is fleeting,' Mr.Knight. An old saying."

"Oh. Well, I guess I'd better be going, Mr.Laroche. Thanks again."

"It was nothing," the musician disclaimed politely.

On his way out, Gabriel paused to quickly pick up a piece of incense from the censer in the hall. Downstairs, he stopped to talk to the short, stocky concierge.

"So, were you on duty the night that Vladimir...died?"

"No, monsieur, that was Jean Paul's shift. He's the night concierge."

"Say, I was wondering: is there any way I could get a look at Vlad's apartment? I'm such a fan!"

The concierge stared at him suspiciously, but responded politely enough. "I'm sorry, Monsieur, but the police have asked me to let no one in without authorization."

"Oh. Well, thanks anyway."

Gabriel walked out and strolled slowly around the building. At the back, he looked up to notice adjacent balconies on the third floor.

"Hmm. One of those is Laroche's, I guess. And the one on the left has to be the corresponding one in Tornenkov's apartment."

He sauntered back to the car, absently fingering the piece of incense in his pocket. He was pretty sure Laroche had been lying about not knowing Christian Lemaitre, the ratty little cocaine dealer who had been the slasher's third victim. Claire had indicated that it was Laroche who had been Lemaitre's initial contact. And Vladimir had eaten at Laroche's place that night, leaving ample opportunity for the violinist to drug his partner with a hallucinogen. On the other hand, his grief was obviously genuine. Why would he contribute to his best friend's death? It didn't add up.

He drove back to the St.Clair farmhouse, his mind working furiously, assessing everything he had learnt so far. When he got there, he noticed the people who had been milling around in the morning had gone, and the spot where Michael had fallen the previous night was marked off with the ubiquitous yellow tape that police everywhere seemed to use.

Time for a quick look, Gabriel decided, with a rapid glance around to make sure no one was watching.

**********************************

Whatever the h*ll this 'Iblis' was, Gabriel decided, he knew how to move through grass without leaving tracks. Recalling the twisted gargoyle-like face and repellently sinuous body of the mysterious creature that had tried to kill him, and would have succeeded had it not been for Michael St. Clair's intervention, he repressed a shudder. No traces of the entity remained on the ground; it was as if Iblis had been nothing more than a phantom, an illusion. Gabriel knew better. The knife that had impaled Michael's left lung, missing his heart by a hairsbreadth, had been all too real.

Blood stains marked the ground where Michael had fallen. Looking around, Gabriel tried to relate the scene with what he had learned about the other murders. A thought struck him, and he walked slowly around and away from the taped off area, tracing a steady spiral outward from the spot. About a hundred feet north, he struck pay-dirt: a curiously flattened rectangular patch of grass, as though something heavy had lain there. Just as he had discovered near the place Tornenkov's body had been found. Kneeling down, he retrieved small crystals of a brown substance from the edge of the flattened patch.

"This looks like more of that incense stuff", he reflected.

With sudden energy, he swung around and headed for the farmhouse. "I need to talk to Grace!"

**********************************

When he finally found her, Grace was standing in the hospital corridor outside the intensive care ward, staring through the glass window, oddly rapt, attention focussed on the unconscious man who lay within. Gabriel halted some feet away, reluctant to intrude on the moment, afraid of what he might see in her face when she did turn around. He braced himself and moved to stand at her shoulder, looking in at Michael's pale face on the white pillow, at the barely perceptible rise and fall of his breathing under the sheet that covered his chest.

"Dr.Bernard says he's still under sedation," Grace said, without looking around. "She said he won't come out of it till tomorrow."

"I know. Just talked to her on my way in."

They stood in silence for a while, thoughts and feelings in turmoil, until Grace pivoted sharply away from the sight, starting toward the exit. "Did you find out anything about Lucien Laroche?"

"Yeah. I've got quite a few things to tell you."

Back at the St.Clair farmhouse, Father Jean leafed through Tornenkov's appointment book and glanced up at Gabriel.

"Vladimir appears to have been a most methodical man," he remarked. "He wrote down all his appointments, from rehearsals with his partner down to his sessions with his tailor! However, there's no mention of any plans other than dinner for the night he was killed."

Grace called up a reference file on her laptop computer. "Here you go, Gabriel: the background you wanted on the 'Danse Macabre'."

'Danse Macabre: the Dance of Death

Dance of Death, a medieval allegorical concept, expressive of the all conquering power of death, to which the arts of poetry, drama, and music, as well as the visual arts, all made their contribution. In painting and sculpture this phrase, often used loosely in the sense of memento mori (i.e. a reminder of death), should be restricted to representations of a procession of the living and the dead. Although known in most countries of Western Europe by a local equivalent of the term Dance of Death (e.g. Totentanz in Germany, Danza de la muerte in Spain, etc.) the dance is known in France, its country of origin, as the Danse Macabre.

The earliest recorded use of the term danse macabre occurs in 1376 in a poem by Jean Le Fevre, but the concept was already present in the Vado Mori ("I walk with death") poems of the late 13th or early 14th century, in which its essentials (the inevitability and the impartiality of death) are combined. It must have gained momentum as a result of the Black Death in the mid 14th century. By the end of the century (1393) a dramatic version of the theme was being performed in a church at Daudebec, Normandy. Widespread preoccupation with the idea of memento mori in general, however, makes it difficult to identify the moment at which the Dance of Death assumed its definitive form. The mimed dance and the morality play undoubtedly contributed to its development, even if they did not actually supply the source. The presence of a preacher in many of the picture cycles suggests an illustrated sermon; and the dance song "Ad mortem festinus", found in 14th century manuscript, provides an early example in music.

The theme of the ultimate equality of all had great satirical potentialities. The French composer Camille de St.Saens scored his famous version of the 'Danse Macabre', a piece originally written for piano and violin, in the nineteenth century. It is this version that is most familiar to audiences today, with numerous arrangements for multiple instruments.

In recent times, the famous duo, Laroche and Tornenkov, have lent a fresh popularity to the piece with their mesmerising interpretation of the St.Saens composition and Laroche's own variations on the theme.'

Gabriel fingered his miniature tape recorder, recalling the recording he had made in Claire Desmoulins' apartment. "Claire said that Laroche claimed the 'Danse Macabre' was his own joke against the rest of the world. Wonder why that is?"

"I'd say he's obsessed with death, for some reason," Grace commented.

"Maybe," Gabriel said thoughtfully. "Or..."

"Or?" Grace prompted him when he trailed off.

"Or he's obsessed with the opposite idea," he finished slowly.

"The opposite idea? You mean, with life?" Grace asked, confused.

"Immortality, Gracie. Not having to die at all. And he told me 'Faust' was one of his favourite books..."

Grace shook her head sceptically. "That's not much of an argument, Gabriel. I don't think..."

"Don't be so quick to dismiss the idea, Grace," Father Jean chimed in unexpectedly. "Gabriel may well be right, especially if, as I suspect, he is following his instincts in this matter. Immortality is certainly one of the classic lures the Serpent uses to tempt his followers. In any case, we must not lose sight of the main problem at hand."

"That there's going to be another murder. Probably tonight," Gabriel agreed, sighing heavily. "I'm going down to talk to Commissaire Dernaud."

**********************************

Dernaud listened quietly, not interrupting, while Gabriel spoke urgently and persuasively.

"...so, we figure the murders have been timed to coincide with the summer solstice; that is, the last one should happen on 23rd June."

"It's against the pattern; all the other murders have taken place on weekends," Dernaud said. But he looked very thoughtful.

"That's just it: there is going to be another murder this weekend! And then one last one on Monday!"

"Perhaps your theory is right; but who is responsible? If these are Cult-motivated killings, where are the members of this Serpent Cult? How have they managed to stay undiscovered? And why here, in Gisors?"

Gabriel hitched his chair forward. "I may have some answers for you. Remember you said you needed to find a local connection for Christian Lemaitre and Cesar Capelli? I've got one. Laroche."

"Lucien Laroche? The musician?" The studious looking Commissaire was politely incredulous.

"Listen to this," Gabriel retorted, playing back the latter part of his taped conversation with Claire Desmoulins.

Dernaud sat up sharply as he heard Claire explaining about the drug habits of Laroche's intimates, how Lemaitre and Capelli had both known the violinist.

"That still doesn't tie Laroche to the murders," he said, though with less scepticism.

"How about this?" Gabriel held out the incense fragments he had found near the spot Tornenkov's body had been found, along with the lab report the chemist in Paris had given him.

"Incense. So?"

"That's something I found near the Blanchard place a little way from where you found the body." Gabriel took out two more envelopes. "I found this piece near the St.Clair farmhouse. Not far from where I was attacked last night. And this," he finished with a meaning look, "Is a piece I picked up today in Laroche's apartment. I'll bet anything you like that you'll find that the samples match."

The Commissaire accepted both envelopes with a sharp look at Gabriel. "Mr.Knight, I suspect you have been indulging your creative tendencies in this investigation, despite my earlier warning. Don't forget you were nearly the latest victim last night. I think that your involvement in this case has gone far enough."

Gabriel squirmed uncomfortably under the steely gaze of the young policeman, but summoned up a rebellious scowl. "Look, this is personal now. This maniac attacked me and nearly killed Michael! I'm not backing off!"

"Yes, you are." The soft statement was definitely not a request.

"I can't do that. No, wait! You've gotta admit I found you some important leads," Gabriel tried, as reasonably as he could.

"Yes, I admit it. I appreciate your efforts. But I can't let a civilian risk his life over police business. You are out of it from now on, even if I have to arrest you to do it."

Gabriel swore. "At least watch Laroche," he insisted, frustated.

"I will. I'll keep him under tight surveillance. And I've imposed a strict curfew in town. Patrols will see to it no one takes a midnight walk into the country tonight. No, that's all," he said sharply, forestalling Gabriel before he could burst out with an argument. "Go home to bed, Mr.Knight. And stay there this time!"

Gabriel rose to go, knowing he wouldn't get any further here. Just as he reached the door, Dernaud spoke. "Mr. Knight?"

"Yeah?"

"You asked before if any animals have disappeared in this area. There was an unusually high incidence of reported cases of stolen livestock and missing pets, over the months of April and May. Then the thefts just seemed to stop. There have been none this month."

Gabriel turned slowly around to face the Commissaire. He wasn't sure what to say, so he waited.

"Yes, I believe you," Dernaud responded, in answer to the unspoken question. "I think you may be on the right track where these murders are concerned. That's exactly why I want you to stay out of it. It's too dangerous."

**********************************

_*it is time*_ the voice slithered through his mind. _*give me what i need*._

_Please!_ he begged. _Let me go! The price is too high!_

_*too high for eternal youth and beauty?*_ the hateful presence mocked him. _*think of all the knowledge i have given you. too high a price? why, how you have changed, my little one. still, you do amuse me. but you know it's too late for you now.*_

Like thick fog, the evil presence coiled around him, the blood lust rising in a dark tide that choked out conscious thought, filling the hollow void where his soul used to be.

The small corner of his mind that was still aware wept helplessly in pain and despair. The *other* only laughed.

**********************************

Grace dreamed.

_She stood before a stained glass window in the St.Clair chapel, seeing a beautifully executed scene: two men kneeling before a stone sarcophagus. She felt a warm presence at her shoulder and knew who it was before she even turned. The tall, lithe man she had seen before in her dreams. He beckoned to her, and she followed. The armored knight came to a halt before a familiar painting. A group of shepherds clustered around a stone sepulcher. On the stone were the words 'Et in Arcadia ego'._

_Grace knew the painting. She looked questioningly at her companion. He stepped into the painting, as if through a window, appearing in the landscape, still holding out a hand to her. She didn't hesitate. Trustingly, she put her hand in his, and was drawn through to stand in the now deserted scene. She looked around at the peaceful countryside, feeling oddly drawn to the stone landmark that stood before her. She reached to touch it, and was drawn back by the man who stood with her. He pointed wordlessly in the other direction, and her gaze followed, to light on a familiar building. Down the gently sloping valley, in a direct line from where they stood, towered a great castle, its ramparts bristling militantly against the clear morning sky._

_She turned back to the man who stood with her, and looked into the achingly familiar eyes that seemed to pierce her soul. She reached out to raise the visor that hid his features, but just as she touched him, he faded away..._

Gabriel tossed and turned restlessly in his sleep. Strange voices and images flitted like ghosts through his subconscious. "Wolfgang...?" he muttered vaguely.

Outside, night reigned supreme, hiding unspeakable horrors under a cloak of inexorable darkness...

**********************************

   [1]: http://www.geocities.com/maya_ar/myfic.html#IBDIDN Index



	7. Quest

**[In Brightest Day, In Darkest Night...][1]**   
**[A Gabriel Knight Mystery][1]**

**Chapter 6**

**_"Reach high, for stars lie hidden in your soul._**   
**_Dream deep, for every dream precedes the goal."_**   
**_-- Ralph Vaul Starr_**

**_.........................._**

**_"Downward to night, but not of moon and cloud,_**   
**_Not night with all its stars, as night we know,_**   
**_But burdened with an ocean-weight of woe_**   
**_The darkness closed us."_**

**_-- Dante_**

**********************************

**_*Sunday, 22 June*_**

The mood around the breakfast table on Sunday morning at the St.Clair farmhouse was bleak and silent. The television announcer continued to talk in an uncharacteristically hushed voice, reciting details of the fresh murder that had occurred the previous night. This time, the killing had generated an added dimension of shock and dismay. Not because of the murder itself, but because of the victim. A policeman. One of the very men who had been charged with protecting the public from this heinous serial killer had himself succumbed.

Commissaire Dernaud, grim and taciturn, refused interviews with the press, and a determined looking cordon of police officers surrounded the spot where the body had been discovered, keeping onlookers at bay.

Father Jean got up and turned off the TV. Gabriel seethed in silence, a deep smoldering anger burning him from within, at the situation, at his own failure to prevent the increasing toll in lives; raging equally at his own deep-seated and inescapable fear. Finally, Grace spoke, breaking the tense stillness.

"We have to stop this." She was matter of fact, her voice dispassionate, yet utterly resolute.

Gabriel recognised the mood, and felt his spirits lift. He realized afresh how much he had come to depend on Grace, her ability to set aside her distress in the worst crises, and calmly plan a solution.

"We will," he agreed, forcing confidence into his tone. "First, we've got to find St.George's sword. Gracie, you said yesterday that you didn't know where to look. The map didn't say where this underground catacomb or whatever is, right?"

"It's true, the *map* doesn't say where it is," Grace said slowly. "But I think I know now where we have to look."

"What do you mean? Where?"

She did not answer, not in words. Instead, she rose and walked to the living room, halting in front of the huge canvas that hung over the fireplace. "The Shepherds of Arcadia". It appeared to be a pastoral scene, set in a lightly wooded landscape, with a group of men standing around what appeared to be a stone tomb or sarcophagus. On the tomb, the words, "Et in Arcadia ego" were clearly visible.

"The map says the entrance to the Mithraeum is marked by a 'sacred stone'", Grace said. "That stone."

Jean Gerard looked puzzled. "But this is a copy of a Poussin painting, Grace. What does it have to do with the map we have?"

"I don't know, Father. But that's the entrance."

"How do you know?"

"I can't explain. I just know. The stone's a little way outside town, due north from the Chateau."

"You have seen it?" Father Jean enquired, still bemused.

"No. But it's there."

Gabriel did not argue, recalling his own strange visions of the night before. "OK. Let's go find it. But first, I'm going to have a talk with the Commissaire."

"Gabriel." Grace stopped him. "We'll need rope. And flashlights. And knives."

"I can find you those things," Gerard interposed. "Though I wish I understood how the two of you can be so sure."

Gabriel and Grace exchanged a speaking glance. "Hunch," they chorused in unison.

**********************************

The police officer on duty at the station was polite but firm. "the Commissaire cannot see anyone right now. He is busy."

"Dammit, tell him I'm here!" Gabriel demanded angrily. He gripped the counter and directed a hard, furious glare at the woman, willing her to comply.

She bristled angrily, and was about to reply when a weary voice interrupted. "It's all right, Junot. I'll see Mr.Knight."

Gabriel stalked past the counter and into Dernaud's office to find the Commissaire himself leaning tiredly against his desk. The usually immaculate policeman was in shirtsleeves, and lines of weariness creased his absurdly young face.

"I warned you!" Gabriel snarled. "I warned you to keep an eye on Laroche. And now the bast**d's killed again! Goddammit, one of your own men!"

Dernaud reacted with unexpected violence, half-lunging towards Gabriel, but catching himself at the last moment. His reply, when it came, was infinitely cold and tightly controlled.

"As a matter of fact, Mr.Knight, we did take your advice. It might interest you to know that the officer who was killed last night was one of those I had assigned to keep an eye on Lucien Laroche."

Gabriel went still with shock. A closer look at the policeman showed the strain he had been under, and the sheer physical exhaustion that was clearly beginning to take its toll. Underneath the controlled surface, God only knew what demons of grief, guilt and frustration were preying on the man's spirit.

"I'm sorry," Gabriel said, more gently.

There was a brief silence, and a tacit acceptance of the proffered olive branch.

"I had three men watching the house. Marchand, the officer who was killed, was relieved by another man at around 11 p.m. He should have gone home after that. The concierge at the apartment says that Laroche never went out at all, and my men confirm his story."

"You mean they didn't see him leave," Gabriel said.

"They didn't see him leave," Dernaud agreed. "But I'm beginning to believe your theory about his involvement in the murders. The incense fragments you gave me were perfectly matched. And I spoke to Mlle. Desmoulins, as well as a few other people who know Laroche. They confirm that he was acquainted with both Lemaitre and Capelli. Also, the crowd he associates with are known drug abusers." He paused. "None of it is evidence enough for a court of law, but I don't believe in coincidence. Especially not this last one," he said, holding out a photograph.

Gabriel accepted it and almost gagged at the sight of a terribly mutilated body lying twisted on a rectangular block of stone. The tatters that clothed it were recognisable as the remnants of a police uniform. Around the bloody remains of the officer were the evidence of a grisly ritual: scattered around the stone slab were half melted candles and strange utensils. One black dish contained the charred remains of obviously organic matter; at the foot of the 'altar' was a censer with still smoking brown fragments in it.

"The stuff in the dish is the victim's liver, as far as we can tell," Dernaud explained clinically, only his eyes revealing the terrible control that veiled his feelings. "And the incense is a perfect match for the samples you found earlier."

Gabriel put the photograph down, sickened. "He didn't even bother to clean up this time," he said slowly. "As though it doesn't matter any more."

"As though he's daring us to catch him," Dernaud assented. The cold blue eyes suddenly flared. "Well, I'm not going to disappoint him!"

There was no answering that. "Commissaire," Gabriel said suddenly, changing the subject, "About Vladimir Tornenkov's apartment."

"We've searched it," Dernaud informed him. "What about it?"

"I need to take a look at it."

"Now?"

Gabriel noticed that there was no argument this time about him being a civilian. In the last ten minutes, he had suddenly been reclassified from outsider to ally.

"No, later. I have something to do first. Can you arrange that I have access?"

"I'll speak to the concierge." He probed Gabriel's face curiously. "You'll keep me informed if you find out anything."

"Yeah. Thanks. I'll see you later."

"Au revoir, Mr.Knight."

**********************************

Grace stared once more at the old hand drawn map that showed the way to the hiding place of Ascalon, St.George's invincible sword. She willed the cryptic directions to make sense, but in vain.

"Sacer Lapis," she muttered, tracing the path with her finger. "From the stone, twenty paces down. Two hundred north. That's clear enough. Then thirty paces west into a 'cubiculum': a bedroom? And here's the first obstacle: 'the treacherous pit' which 'awaits the false step'." She shook her head and went on.

"Hmm... 'the Shepherd's path'... 'the Lion's teeth'... oh great: the 'Cliff of Doom'! I wish I knew what all this meant!"

"Grace, you must not be so downcast. These directions are not literal. I think you will understand them when you come to the place itself."

"I hope so, Father. Otherwise, there's a good chance I won't survive to try again!"

"That's not very encouraging, Gracie," Gabriel said dryly, coming in just in time to catch her last remark.

"Want to back out now?" she challenged him.

"It doesn't matter what I want, Gracie. Like I said before, there's no choice now. Let's go."

A short drive later, the two of them stood in the open countryside just outside Gisors.

"This way," Grace said, leading the way confidently. She walked straight to a dense thicket of shrubs and stopped. Wordlessly, Gabriel produced a knife and hacked away enough foliage for them to enter. Grace took a few steps forward and came to a halt. Before them was the sarcophagus from the painting.

A shape of a great sword was carved onto the stone slab that covered it. Beneath it, a single word: Invicto.

"To him, the unconquered. Even in Arcadia..." Grace breathed. "The sacred stone."

Together, they stepped forward and pulled at the slab. It slid aside easily, as if it weighed nothing. Inside the hollow interior, a stairway was revealed. It led down into a dark subterranean chamber.

Gabriel took a deep breath. "Well. The moment of truth. Shall we?"

Unconsciously fingering his Talisman, he descended into the mouth of darkness.

**********************************

The small chamber was circular, with several paths leading away in different directions.

"OK, Gracie, which way now?" Gabriel asked, gesturing with his flashlight, sending shadows dancing weirdly over the stone walls.

"North," Grace pointed, after consulting her pocket compass.

They followed the northward path, which seemed to slope gradually down. They emerged into a larger room with oddly arched niches lining the walls.

Grace consulted the map. "This is supposed to be the 'cubiculum': the bedroom."

Gabriel shone his flashlight onto one of the niches and discovered that the mouth was sealed by a marble slab inscribed with the words 'Requiescat in Pace'.

"Rest in Peace. I guess you could call this a bedroom all right," he said dryly. "It's a tomb, Grace."

Grace was staring worriedly at the floor. It was covered with large mosaic tiles in different shapes. She grabbed at Gabriel's arm when he took a step to advance into the room.

"Wait! This is where the map indicates the first trap. Look at those tiles," she said quickly. "There's something odd about the ones marked with circles. I think we need to stick to the rectangular tiles, the ones that are marked with crosses."

They walked carefully, Grace leading the way, crossing into the lone passage that led out of the room. Gabriel paused and picked up a stone that lay on the floor. Turning, he tossed it onto one of the nearer tiles, marked with a circle. With a rumble, it immediately gave way, revealing only a fathomless darkness below.

"Whew! Good thing I've got you along, Gracie!"

Walking on, they followed the twisting path for what seemed like a long time, until they finally emerged into an immense subterranean cave, with a deep chasm yawning directly before them. Four different paths stretched out ahead, narrow bridges of stone that spanned the gulf of dark space. Stopping, they looked around warily, wondering what new trap awaited them here. With a chill, Gabriel noticed that rows of cocked crossbows were mounted all along the east and west walls of the huge cavern. He pointed silently, and Grace nodded acknowledgement. She stared down at the four paths, thinking furiously.

At the head of each bridge was a stone slab bearing a carved image. The first slab depicted a fully armed Roman soldier: tunic, breastplate, shortsword, sandals, horsehair helmet. The second carving showed a medieval knight in chain mail and visored helmet. The third was a picture of a man in a monk's long habit, carrying a staff. The fourth and last carving was of a simply clad man in tunic and loose conical cap, with a crooked staff across his shoulders.

"That way," Grace said confidently, pointing to the fourth path. "That's an image of the God Mithras."

"So?" Gabriel asked, puzzled. "I thought we were supposed to follow the Shepherd's Path!"

"Gabriel," Grace explained patiently, "Mithras' followers used to call him the Good Shepherd."

Careful not to look down at the depths of the canyon, Gabriel gingerly walked across the path, heaving a sigh of relief as Grace joined him safely on the other side.

"So far so good," he said lightly, to diguise his relief. "What now?"

"The Lion's teeth," Grace said absently, directing her flashlight onto the tunnel mouth that gaped before them. She moved in that direction, only to come up short as Gabriel seized her arm sharply.

"I don't like the sound of that," he warned. Picking up another stone, he tossed it through the entrance. Like a wild animal, the cave mouth snapped at them! Steel fangs emerged from the roof and lower end of the passage, clashing with metallic menace and then retracting just as quickly, leaving no hint of their murderous existence.

Grace shuddered with reaction, visualising just what would have happened if he had not pulled her back in time. Gabriel looked around carefully, and finally spotted a small niche in the wall, at nearly floor level, next to the mouth of the tunnel. He knelt down and pulled the all but invisible lever in the niche, and heard a muffled click. He stood and tossed another stone through the gap. This time, nothing happened. Warily, the two walked into the tunnel, which spiralled steadily downward into the darkness.

Finally, after a seemingly interminable hike, they emerged into a larger cavern, only to be brought up short by a sheer stone wall.

"The Cliff of Doom," Grace sighed resignedly. "Good thing we brought climbing spikes and rope."

A good half hour later, Gabriel extended an arm to help Grace over the top of the high and treacherously smooth precipice. They had narrowly escaped two minor rock slides on the way up, though Gabriel now sported a gash on his left temple where a falling stone had grazed him.

"Hey, fresh air!" Gabriel said, with an inquisitive sniff. Looking up, he pointed at a small opening in the roof that let fresh air and and a thin shaft of sunlight into the chamber.

"The map says there are 'lucemaria': skylights, in this area. We need to go north again."

They walked up the clearly marked path, hearing the muffled gurgle of water somewhere nearby. Finally, they came to a dead end. A stone wall, intricately carved with figures in bas-relief. Familiar figures. St.George. The dragon. A rampant Lion. An armored Knight. And a Crusader's Latin cross. On either side of the wall, a round niche. Again, reminiscent of the St.Clair vault. Wordlessly, Gabriel pulled out his Talisman, and handed the St.Clair Seal to Grace.

He inserted the Ritter Talisman into the right niche, while Grace did the same with the Seal on the left. With a rumble of stone on stone, the wall slid aside, exposing a great circular room. Gabriel hesitated for a brief instant, and then stepped into the vaulted chamber.

It was undoubtedly a shrine: a Mithraeum. A small grotto at the head of the room held a sculpture of Mithras slaying the primal bull. The mosaic floor showed a seven runged ladder, surrounded by mystic symbols. A slightly raised platform in the center of the room was, no doubt, the place where the Senior Priest, the Father, led followers in Prayer. Beautiful murals on the walls showed scenes from legend and history. St.George slaying the Dragon. The Templars rebuilding the Temple of Solomon. Mithras blessing the world.

An indefinable air of sanctity, of being on holy ground, assailed Gabriel. The chamber was magnificent, awesome. It was also resoundingly empty.

"Gabriel," Grace whispered, "According to my calculations, we're directly below the Chateau de Gisors!" Then, "Where is it?" she wondered aloud, turning slowly around. "According to the map, the Treasure is supposed to be right here!"

Gabriel was silent. He had a strange feeling that he was supposed to do something. But what?

Like a man in a trance, he walked to the centre of the room and on to the raised platform. Raising his Talisman towards the silent sculpture of the God, he whispered, "Mithrae Invicto."

The floor trembled beneath him. In his hand, the Talisman glowed intensely, green and red lights beginning to spark from the gems embedded in it. Grace took a startled step back, feeling a warm radiance emanating from the Seal that she still held. It too, was glowing, as they had seen it do the night that Michael confronted the demon Iblis.

Gabriel stumbled away from the platform, as it slowly split apart. A stone pillar rose from the gap, growing from nothing into a waist level flat-topped column. On it rested a single artifact: a great golden sword hilt. Just a hilt. There was no blade. Gabriel picked it up slowly. It was heavy and passive in his grip. After an endless moment, Grace broke the stunned silence with a shocked, "It's broken!" Then, a more moderate, "Are you sure that's it?"

"This is the hilt of Ascalon, all right," Gabriel said, with certainty. "It's the hilt of St.George's sword."

"Then what happened to the blade?"

"I don't know, Grace." His voice was heavy with the depth of his disappointment and fear. "But this is all there is."

"We came all this way for an empty sword hilt?" Grace exclaimed furiously.

"I guess we did," he replied.

Shaking her head in angry disgust, she turned away. "Well then, let's get back above the ground."

"Wait, Gracie. Not that way." He pointed silently at a new passageway that had opened in the chamber unnoticed, at the same time as the central platform.

They trudged wearily through the new opening, all the energy that had sustained them through the difficult trek to the Mithraeum drained away by the anti-climax of discovery. Gabriel, slightly in the lead, stopped as the passage ended at the banks of a fast moving underground stream. Grace pointed to the right. Daylight was clearly visible, as the tunnel ended where the stream emerged into the open air. With resigned sighs, they bent to crawl alongside the water, and forced their way out of the bushes that ringed the end of the tunnel. When they stood up in the open air, it was on the banks of the river Epte. The rooftops of the town of Gisors were clearly visible not far away.

**********************************

Father Jean Gerard handled the ornate sword hilt with grave reverence. "Ascalon," he breathed, caressing the gleaming metal. His fingers traced the embossed Sun on the cross guard.

"Father, none of the chronicles mention anything happening to damage Ascalon!" Grace was clearly both perplexed and worried. "And without the blade, Gabriel can't use the Sword."

"Who knows?" the old man soothed. "Perhaps just possessing a part of the Sword of St.George may aid Gabriel far more than we know. This is a gift from the Lord of Light himself!"

Gabriel raised his head from his hands. "God knows I could use all the help I can get!" Then he gathered his confused thoughts, recalling yet again how much responsibility rested on his reluctant shoulders. "Look, there's no use worrying about Ascalon now. What's done is done. We'll have to find another way. How about we go over everything we know so far, and take it from there?"

"OK," Grace agreed. "Let's start with the Cult of the Serpent. We know they've been around for centuries, and we know they worship the evil Serpent in exchange for gifts such as power, youth, beauty, long life, revenge on their enemies, etc., etc. We believe the Cult is behind the recent slasher killings that have been taking place around town, because the pattern and methods used coincide with the Greater Ritual of the Serpent. We believe that the Cult is planning a final sacrifice to coincide with the Eve of St.John, the summer solstice, tomorrow. If completed, the Greater Ritual is supposed to allow the Serpent to manifest physically and independently on our world." She paused.

"Go on, Gracie," Gabriel encouraged her. Wheels were turning in his own head.

"Right. Supporting our theory that the Greater Ritual of the Serpent is being invoked, we know that a number of animals have gone missing in this area, which would be consistent with the animal sacrifices required in the first phase of the ritual. For the second phase, the Cult would have needed to perform a human sacrifice. The victim would have been a voluntary sacrifice, probably a Cult member." She stopped. "Who?" she frowned.

"I've got some ideas. But don't stop now." Gabriel told her.

Picking up the thread, she went on. "The third phase of the Ritual involves the mutilation and murder of six victims. Five murders have occurred so far, exactly matching the pattern. If it's not stopped, the ritual will be complete tomorrow with the sixth and final killing." She stopped again.

"The Cult is known to use various methods to control its members, among which are coercion, drugs, and the granting of 'gifts' such as power, virility, and so on. The rarest but most powerful method of control is possession. This involves a demonic entity, in some cases, the Serpent itself, possessing a living human being, using a solid physical object to focus its occult powers. The object itself may be anything: a gemstone, a book, a bottle: as long as the Focus is intact, the demon can continue to possess its victim. If the Focus is destroyed, the possession instantly ends, but so do whatever benefits the possessed human had received: the prolonged life span, the knowledge, the beauty, the occult powers. While possessed, the human carrier can do nothing against the will of his possessor."

Gabriel took up the recital when Grace broke off.

"I think that Lucien Laroche and his friends are involved with the Cult, and are somehow behind the killings here. In fact, I'm convinced that Cesar Capelli, the drug baron who vanished mysteriously before the killings started, was a Cult member, and was the first 'voluntary' sacrifice. He introduced Christian Lemaitre, a small time drug dealer, to Laroche. Lemaitre probably found out too much about the cult, so he was snuffed. Vladimir Tornenkov, the fourth victim, was the friend and partner of Laroche. Maybe he found some things out that Laroche didn't want him to know. Anyway, he died too. Then I was attacked, the same night that I had dinner with Laroche's girlfriend. Michael saved me." He fought back emotion and went on.

"The most recent victim was the cop who was supposed to be watching Laroche's house. There's more circumstantial evidence. The fragments of a unique blend of incense found at the murder scenes match with the incense Laroche uses in his home. His girlfriend, Nicole, probably drugged me with some hallucinogenic dope on Friday night. Those drugs would also explain why the victims decided to take a late night stroll outside town, and why they didn't struggle too much."

"So far, it fits,' Father Jean said.

"Yeah. Another thing. If we manage to stop the Cult before they make the final sacrifice tomorrow, the Serpent can't manifest, and we may not need the Sword of St.George at all. And Commissaire Dernaud is hot on Laroche's tail. If we can just find solid evidence that he can use to arrest Laroche..."

The phone rang. Grace answered it, and after listening briefly, held it out to Gabriel. "It's for you."

"Gabriel, this is Claire Desmoulins," a feminine voice said. "The police called me this morning, asking me to confirm what I told you yesterday. What's going on?"

"Claire, we think Lucien Laroche might have had something to do with Vladimir's death."

"What? My God!" She sounded shocked and appalled. After a moment, she asked, "But why? Heaven knows I have no reason to like Lucien, but he was so close to Vlad!"

"We think Vlad may have found out about some of Lucien's shady dealings," Gabriel explained. "We can't prove it yet, though."

"Prove it? Wait. Vlad kept a diary. If he found out anything, he would have written it down."

"The police looked at his appointment diary already. There's nothing useful in it."

"No, no, not his appointment book, his diary! He used to write down everything that happened to him. I know, I teased him about it!" She was very emphatic.

"Claire, the police have been through his apartment; they only found his appointment book. There's no diary."

"Then someone must have removed it." Claire was very firm in her conviction on this point.

Thanking her and hanging up, Gabriel told Grace and Father Jean about his conversation.

"Someone removed it?" Father Jean repeated. The three of them looked at each other. "Laroche!"

Gabriel face went hard with resolve. "I'm going to have to look at Laroche's apartment. Preferably when he's not there."

**********************************

   [1]: http://www.geocities.com/maya_ar/myfic.html#IBDIDN Index



	8. Endings

  
**[In Brightest Day, In Darkest Night...][1]**   
**[A Gabriel Knight Mystery][1]**

**Chapter 7**

**_"Behold the reptile with the stinging tail,_**   
**_That mountains hold not, nor strong walls avail_**   
**_To bar, nor any weapons wound. Behold_**   
**_Him who diseases all the world with guile."_**   
**_-- Dante_**

**_......................._**

**_"We are the Dead. Short days ago_**   
**_We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow..._**   
**_...Take up our quarrel with the foe:_**   
**_To you from failing hands we throw_**   
**_The torch; be yours to hold it high._**   
**_If ye break faith with us who die_**   
**_We shall not sleep..."_**   
**_-- John McCrae._**

**********************************

_Shadows whirled about him, their malicious whispers spearing his soul with wanton darts of pain. Torches guttered in their holders on the bloody dungeon walls. Around him lay his dead and dying, their broken bodies mute testimonials to the hours and months of torture endured within these smothering walls. He sank to his knees, bowed down by the weight of his sorrow. All around him the sound of inhuman laughter mocked his anguish._

_A familiar body lay before him, limbs asprawl in death, the lovely dark eyes staring at him without recognition, empty of everything, even pain. He took a cold hand gently in his, feeling his heart tearing with the agony of loss and guilt. Grace...the strangled cry choking him, he forgot to breathe, welcoming the pain of airlessness, as if joining her in death would ease his torment._

_A voice roused him. Wake up, Gabriel. These are shadows; phantoms without substance. They cannot hurt you unless you let them. Wake up, Gabriel. Wake up to the Light..._

**********************************

**_*Monday, 23 June*_**

When he sat up, he knew it was morning. Sunlight streamed through the window and over the bed, but no warmth could dispel the chill in his heart. He threw his clothes on carelessly, eager to get into action and forget the visions that disturbed him.

He had sat up till very late the previous night with Father Jean Gerard and Grace, the three of them thinking and planning, arguing and agreeing: all with one single purpose. To stop the inevitable murder that would otherwise occur on St.John's Eve. The last step in the complex ritual that would awaken the Great Serpent and let him roam the waking world, as he had centuries ago in the Age of Heroes...

When Gabriel walked into the kitchen, it was empty. The scent of freshly toasted bread and piping hot coffee alerted him to recent occupation. Gratefully pouring himself a cup, he saw a note lying on the table. Picking it up, he discovered that Grace and Father Jean had risen long before him (as usual) and left the farm house, to perform the tasks allotted to them under the plan. Methodical as ever, Grace had left him a checklist. Gabriel smiled wryly, and put the note in his pocket.

The phone rang in the living room. He answered it, glancing at his watch to see that it was nearly nine in the morning. Father Jean's voice greeted him at the other end.

"Gabriel, I'm calling from Commissaire Dernaud's office. I'm afraid I have some disappointing news. Laroche was not in his apartment when we went there. The concierge said that he left last night, saying that he would not be home for the next few days. Hold on, Jean Claud wants to speak with you," he said quickly, before Gabriel could respond.

The Commissaire was brisk and businesslike. "Mr. Knight, my men and I searched Vladimir Tornenkov's apartment again. There's no trace of his diary. I also looked through Laroche's apartment. Nothing there, either. There is a safe in the library, however, which we cannot access. There appears to be a sonic lock on it."

"A sonic lock? You mean, it responds only to a particular sound or voice, or whatever?"

"Yes, that's it. I've communicated with the Paris police. Laroche will be detained for questioning if he arrives at his flat there; unfortunately, he does not appear to have done so. The police are looking out for him."

"Great. He's missing, and tonight is St.John's Eve!" Gabriel said, almost to himself. "Listen, Commissaire, what about his friends? Nicole Barrat, for instance?"

"We are keeping a watch on them as well, just in case he tries to contact any of them. Ms.Barrat is staying at a hotel here in Gisors."

I know, Gabriel added silently to himself. Wonder how Grace is doing?

**********************************

Grace was sitting at a table in the Hotel de Ville's only restaurant, covertly watching Nicole Barrat having a leisurely breakfast. The blond dancer was talking animatedly to her companion, a thin fair man with glasses. She rose to her feet, still talking.

"Tant pis, Alain," she tossed over her shoulder, walking away.

Grace hardly had time to think about an inconspicuous way of settling her bill and following her, when her intended target made a right angled turn to walk directly towards Grace herself!

"Ms.Grace Nakimura, I believe?" The question was innocuous enough, but the look that accompanied it was filled with mocking amusement.

Grace, inwardly infuriated, pasted a look of calm inquiry on her face. I will not let myself be wrong-footed by this woman! she told herself fiercely.

"Yes...I'm sorry. Have we met?" It sounded perfect, with just the right blend of politeness and puzzled enquiry.

"Oh no, not in person. Though I've heard so much about you, I feel I already know you. I'm Nicole Barrat. I had dinner with Gabriel on Friday."

"Yes, of course. How nice to meet you." When you doped his wine and nearly got him killed, you b*tch! Grace thought, seething.

"It was a... memorable evening," the blond woman continued. "Such a charming man."

"Yes, he is, isn't he," Grace agreed pleasantly. What the h*ll are you trying to lead up to?

"I believe you met Lucien earlier that day, too. He mentioned you to me later; he was very impressed with you, you know."

"Was he? We barely met, and there were so many people at the service," Grace said sweetly.

"Nevertheless, Lucien certainly remembered you most particularly. He described you... oh, most completely", Nicole Barrat rejoined, in saccharine tones. "He's not easily impressed."

Grace shrugged. "That's very flattering. He's a fascinating man."

"I wonder, Ms.Nakimura, would you like to join us this evening for an informal dinner party? Just a few select friends, you know. I assure you, you wouldn't be bored," the dancer invited, smoothly.

I'm sure! Grace thought angrily. I'll bet Vladimir Tornenkov wasn't bored either. "Oh, thank you, that's very kind, but I'm afraid I have other plans," she said aloud, as courteously as she could manage. "Perhaps some other time?"

"Oh dear, Lucien will be disappointed. He particularly wanted you to be there. Well, if you change your mind, please call me. I'll be at the Theatre Broussard all day, rehearsing," Nicole Barrat urged, giving Grace a card. "And do bring Gabriel as well."

The tall blond woman rejoined her bespectacled companion, and resumed her breakfast. A short while later, they both rose to leave. As discreetly as possible, Grace followed.

The flamboyant red sports car pulled up in front of the Broussard Theater, and both occupants went inside through a side door. A safe distance away, Grace parked her car just out of sight, got out and strolled casually into the lobby. She could her the sound of instruments being tuned inside the hall. A small billboard stood just outside the main door. Grace walked over to read it.

"Oh, rehearsals for the modern ballet programme next week. Hmm... L'Opera-Ballet de Paris...featuring Nicole Barrat. Orchestra led by Alain Meunier. No mention of Laroche, though." A further study showed that the rehearsals were due to last all day. A furtive look through the hall doors showed her that Lucien Laroche was not among those present, on stage, or off.

Walking back into the lobby, she noticed what could only be a pair of policemen in plain clothes trying to look as if they belonged there. "Looks like Dernaud had the same idea we did," Grace said to herself. "OK, if Laroche shows up here, they'll get him. I'd better drop by the farmhouse."

**********************************

Gabriel walked into the hallway of the building that housed the apartments of Lucien Laroche and his late neighbour, Vladimir Tornenkov. The concierge looked up with a wary expression as he recognised the visitor.

"Bonjour, Mr.Knight."

"Uh, Bonjour. Listen, did Commissaire Dernaud call you...?"

"...about letting you into M.Tornenkov's apartment, oui, he did. Would you like to see it now?"

"Yeah, sure. Oh, and maybe I could meet Mr. Laroche while I'm here?"

"I'm afraid Monsieur Laroche is not in, sir. He will not be back for several days. As I informed the Commissaire earlier this morning," he added with a disapproving expression.

"The Commissssaire was here again?" Gabriel asked innocently, as if he hadn't known.

"He was, Monsieur. He insisted on searching Monsieur Laroche's apartment! Imagine! As if Monsieur Laroche were a criminal!"

"Imagine that," Gabriel said commiseratingly, faking a shocked expression. "What was he looking for?"

"I wouldn't know, Monsieur," the concierge said stiffly. "If you will follow me, please?" he said, leading the way to the elevator.

Gabriel looked around the living room of Vladimir Tornenkov's apartment. It was scrupulously neat and furnished in a spare, modernistic style. Abstract art in pastels adorned the walls. In dimension, the house was a replica of Laroche's next door apartment. But in everything else, they were worlds apart. Gabriel walked through into the main bedroom, and on to the balcony beyond. He threw a speculative gaze across to the balcony of the next flat, a few scanty feet away.

Looking down at the ground, a good three stories below, he swallowed nervously. I hate it when I get these ideas! he told himself. Then, taking a deep breath, he climbed over the railing, and stood precariously balanced on the edge of the balcony, gripping the railing with one hand for balance. He jumped! and made it safely to the railing on the other side. With a sigh of relief, he clambered into the balcony and walked upto the french windows leading to the master bedroom of Laroche's apartment.

Slipping a credit card into the narrow gap between the doors, he was rewarded with a soft click as the lock opened. Whew! he thought. Glad I watch all those movies. Glancing down at the plastic card in his hand he grinned to himself. Never leave home without it!

He walked straight through into the library. Coming face to face with the safe, he frowned thoughtfully. So the lock only responds to particular sounds, huh? Like, maybe, a particular piece of music? He took out the tape of his conversation with Claire Desmoulins at her apartment. Rewinding it carefully, he played back the rendering of 'Danse Macabre' that he had heard there.

No response. Hmm. What now? He looked around the room. Noticing the old gramophone in the corner, he walked over to it. Seems to be in perfect working order, he thought, sliding a speculative hand over the polished wooden casing. The cabinet right next to the old fashioned machine held old gramophone records. Gabriel looked through the titles.

"Vivaldi, Bach, Schubert, Debussy, Paganini... waittaminit, what's this?"

He pulled out a record in a plain brown sleeve. It was simply marked '1944. Danse Macabre.' He pulled out the record and placed it on the gramophone turntable.

"Man, 78 rpm! This is old stuff!"

He turned it on, after making sure the door to the room was tightly shut. He remembered what Laroche had said about the room being sound-proofed. The library was suddenly filled with eerie music.

It was a violin solo, and Gabriel recognised the tune. Danse Macabre. And it truly did sound like the Dance of the Dead, as the sinister notes filled the room. Gabriel felt the hair rising on his nape as the music gained in intensity. Only once before had he ever heard this piece played with such disturbing passion. He felt the room grow uncomfortably claustrophobic as the sounds seemed to press down on him almost physically. He raised his hands to block his ears as the music rose to a wailing climax, and saw the safe door spring open abruptly. The music died, leaving an echoing silence in its wake.

He walked to the now open safe and took a look. It contained only three objects. A diary, an old leather case, and a black porcelain urn. He reached for the diary first, and opened the fly leaf to find the name 'Vladimir Tornenkov' neatly inscribed on the upper right corner. Bingo! So Laroche had removed the diary of his erstwhile partner!

To Gabriel's disappointment, the diary was in French, which he didn't understand. The last entry was dated 14 June.

When he carefully opened the leather case, he discovered sheets of old, yellowing paper. They were covered with archaic looking writing in a language he didn't understand. It looked like Latin. "What is this?" Gabriel wondered, fingering the stained sheets. Laroche had gone to a lot of trouble to preserve these papers. Maybe Grace would be able to make sense of them.

Then, he reached in and took out the urn. He felt an uneasy tingle pass up his arm as he touched it. "Looks like one of those things people keep the ashes of their dear departed in," he said, with a grimace of distaste. "One thing's for sure, I'm not opening this!"

Five minutes later, he was back in the living room of Tornenkov's apartment, both the diary and urn in his possession. He walked calmly downstairs, and thanked the concierge briefly.

Sitting in the car, he debated whether to contact Dernaud immediately with the diary. No, that would entail an explanation of how he managed to enter Laroche's apartment and open his safe. Better take it back to the farmhouse first.

Gabriel noticed Father Jean's car parked in the driveway of the St.Clair farmhouse. That meant Grace was back! He ran into the house, calling her name.

"Gracie! I found it! I found the diary..." he broke off in shock as he entered the living room. It was a shambles, as if vandals had invaded it and wreaked deliberate havoc on the contents. The paintings from the walls lay slashed and torn on the ground, and pieces of broken furniture lay everywhere. With a sudden foreboding, he rushed into the kitchen. On the floor, his head bleeding sluggishly from an ugly wound on his temple, Father Jean Gerard lay sprawled limply on the floor.

"Father!" Gabriel touched the old man's head gently, horrified by the amount of blood that was pooling slowly on the floor. "Please God, don't let him be dead!"

A weak groan reassured him on that point. "Father! What happened?" Gabriel asked gently.

"Grace..." the old man whispered in a weak voice. "He took Grace..." he managed, before subsiding again, unconscious.

Gabriel's heart stood utterly still.

**********************************

The sound of ambulance sirens wailing died slowly into the distance, and Gabriel returned to the kitchen, sitting down to face Commissaire Jean Claud Dernaud, who looked nearly as white and strained as he felt himself.

After a silence that stretched the empty seconds into minutes, Gabriel proffered a scrap of paper to the young policeman.

"I found this," he said, in a dull voice.

Dernaud accepted and read the note.

"Mr. Gabriel Knight is invited to a select party in the dungeons of the Chateau de Gisors at 11:30 tonight. If he comes alone, he will meet the charming Ms.Grace Nakimura there, alive. If not, he will meet what remains of her."

"Merde!" the Frenchman swore, with feeling. "What does he want you for?"

Gabriel didn't answer directly, but passed across Vladimir Tornenkov's diary.

Dernaud gave him a sharp look and then opened it. "Where did you find this?"

"In Laroche's safe." Gabriel no longer cared what the Commissaire would think of his illegally entering the musician's apartment.

Surprisingly, Dernaud did not question him on the subject, merely giving him a shrewd look from those piercing blue eyes. He read in silence, and finally put the diary down on the table.

"This indicates that your theory about Laroche is correct," he said. "Tornenkov wrote down his growing suspicions of his partner being involved in drug trafficking. The entry for 22 May reads, 'There is something strange going on. Capelli was here again to see Lucien. His manner was extraordinary, humble and yet exalted at the same time. How does Lucien put up with the fellow? They have nothing in common.'"

"Then, on 4 June, 'Alain is talking wildly. He is so strung up with drugs and alcohol that he is hardly sane these days. I feel like an outsider among my own friends. What is happening to us? It is as though some freakish mental illness is spreading through the group. The only one who seems normal is Lucien. He remains uncannily calm and untouched by this weird behaviour.'"

He paused and turned some more pages. "Finally, on 14 June, he wrote, 'I can no longer avoid the truth. What happened to that odious Lemaitre? He became inconvenient, and he has been killed. This evil cannot be allowed to continue. How can I believe this of my friend, my dearest friend? God help me! What shall I do? I shall confront Lucien tonight.'"

Gabriel nodded, as if the dead pianist's words only confirmed his own thoughts.

Dernaud continued. "So Laroche realised you knew too much, is that it? Is that why he is after you now?"

"I guess so," Gabriel replied, though he knew the real reason went beyond such a simple explanation.

"I'm not going to let him kill you, too," Dernaud said flatly. "I'm going to get the bastard this time."

"Yeah. But I've got to go alone to the Chateau tonight." He held up a hand to prevent Dernaud's angry denial. "I'm not suicidal, OK? I've got a couple of ideas. But if you go charging in there with your men, you'll get Grace killed."

He began to explain. After a few sharp questions, Dernaud accepted the idea, though with obvious reluctance.

"Just trust me, OK? I know what I'm doing," Gabriel said, with more confidence than he felt.

"I hope so, Mr. Knight," Dernaud said darkly. "For all our sakes."

**********************************

Gabriel knelt before the simple altar in the St.Clair chapel, his mind a whirlwind of conflicting impulses. "Help me!" he prayed, to whatever God would hear him.

He placed the the St.Clair Seal, the Ritter Talisman, and the golden hilt, which was all that remained of the great sword Ascalon, on the altar. Bowing his head, he recited aloud the oath of the Schattenjagers, the solemn vow that he had first made in the chapel at Schloss Ritter.

**_"St. George, patron of the light,_**   
**_who hunts the shadows of the night..._**

**_upon my blood, I call thee now,_**   
**_purify me, for I avow..._**

**_to set my feet upon thy road;_**   
**_thy sword, I take up for mine own."_**

Never before had he said the words with so much feeling, never before had he understood the whole weight of the pledge, as he did now. Into the silent chapel flooded a shaft of brilliant light. It fell across the altar, setting the objects on it ablaze in incandescent glory.

His heart filled with awe, Gabriel carefully and reverently picked up the artifacts from the altar. First his own Talisman, then the Seal, and finally, the hilt of St.George's sword.

Schattenjager. Champion of Light. He squared his shoulders and walked out to face his destiny.

**********************************

Gabriel found the great door of the Chateau open, and walked into the entrance hall. He made a silent check to ensure that the homing device he carried was working. It would transmit a clear signal for Commissaire Dernaud and his men to follow. But for now, Gabriel would walk alone into the enemy's lair.

He retraced the path he had walked once before, with Michael and Grace on a sunny morning a week ago. Down the stairs into the ominous dungeons, which had held the Templars captive at the instance of King Phillippe of France. The same dungeons that Gabriel had seen in his dreams, where so many Templars had been tortured and killed. He looked around, but the cells were empty and silent.

"Well? I'm here," he said aloud. It was nearly 11:30, but no one appeared to meet him. He walked up and down, wondering what he was supposed to do. Then a fragment of memory came back to him. Walking down to the end of the narrow passage, he was startled when a section of wall rumbled open. It was a hidden doorway. He hesitated for a moment, inconspicuously dropping a card from his wallet, and then stepped inside. The door thudded shut behind him.

**********************************

"Commissaire, we lost the signal!" The young policeman said urgently to his superior.

"What!" Dernaud moved around to see that the red blip showing Gabriel's position had vanished from the monitor. He swore fervently.

"What the hell happened?"

"I don't know, sir!"

The Commissaire drew a deep breath. "We're going in after him. Come on."

**********************************

It was dark, and Gabriel dimly saw a light flickering ahead of him. He followed it, and it moved before him. After a long walk through what looked like a series of abandoned mineshafts, he emerged into a huge cavern. It looked horrifyingly familiar. Hooded and robed figures ringed the travesty of an altar in the middle. A towering mirror hung at the very center of the room, suspended from the high roof by chains of massive iron. Below it was a great pit, the focus of the group's attention.

"Welcome, Shadowhunter," the tallest of the robed figures said, stepping forward. Pushing back his hood, the speaker revealed his handsome, red-maned head. Lucien Laroche. "Now that you are here, we can begin the festivities."

"Laroche. I knew it had to be you."

"Very clever of you, Mr.Knight. I must say I admire your persistence and ingenuity. I fear I had underestimated you. Your knowledge comes too late, however. One more sacrifice, and my master will be free to walk this world."

"You murdered Capelli. And Lemaitre, and the two tourists, and the policeman last night," Gabriel stated positively.

"I sacrificed them", Laroche corrected, "to my master's cause."

"What about Tornenkov? Some best friend you turned out to be. And you claimed to care about him," Gabriel sneered.

Something moved behind the beautiful mask of a face. Was it pain? "I did care about him! I loved him as much as it is in me to love any man. But Vladimir...he didn't understand. He wanted to betray... he was going to betray me."

"Yeah, right." Gabriel said. "Where's Grace?" he asked tightly.

"Why, right here, of course," the leader of the Serpent Cult said, gesturing. A hooded cultist pulled her into view from behind the altar. Gabriel swallowed as he took in the sight of Grace, gagged and bound. She was conscious, her eyes blazing a mixture of fear and rage. At another gesture from Laroche, her gag was undone.

"Gabriel! You came for me!" she exclaimed, relief and fear and a thousand other emotions warring in her voice.

"I'll always come for you, Gracie," he told her quietly. For a brief moment, they might have been all alone, as they both recognised the simple, unalterable truth of his words.

Then he turned to Laroche. "It's me you want. Let her go."

"Not so fast, Mr.Knight," the violinist said silkily. "Why don't you step over here first?"

"No, I have a better idea," Gabriel said. He pulled the black porcelain urn that he had found in Laroche's safe into view, and held it up. "Let Grace go, right now, or I'll drop this."

With a snarl of fury, Laroche took a convulsive step forward, long knife raised threateningly.

"Uh,uh," Gabriel warned. "One more step, and I'll break it. Think of what'll happen to you then, Laroche."

Laroche hesitated, lowering his arm. A strange expression on his face, he whispered, "Perhaps this time, I..." Then a convulsive shudder shook him, and a shriek of inhuman rage escaped his lips.

"Noooo!" The handsome features twisted, and began to change. The deep voice changed to a discordant hiss of fury. The other cultists recoiled in fear as a bloodcurdling howl filled the room. Obviously, they had never before encountered the true face of the creature that led them. In seconds, the human face of Laroche was gone, leaving the gruesome mask of the demon that possessed him in its place. "I will destroy you, mortal!"

"Forget it, Iblis," Gabriel said firmly. "Let her go, or you're history."

With a hiss of frustrated temper, the transformed Laroche cut the ropes that bound Grace's hands and legs. She ran forward to Gabriel's side. He pushed her behind him. "You can forget your sacrifice, pal," he said ironically, backing slowly away with the urn still in his hand.

"No!" the demoniac creature howled. "I will not be stopped now!" With a swift movement, it reached out and seized one of the hooded cult members who cowered by the altar. With a lightning stroke of its knife, it slit the helpless human's throat, letting the blood fountain up onto the altar. The body, already dead, fell limply to the ground, hood falling back to reveal the beautiful face of Nicole Barrat. Her eyes, wide open, still reflected the horrified disbelief and pain of that last terrible instant of realisation, as the thing she had called her lover cut the life from her.

Gabriel and Grace froze in appalled revulsion as the bestial laughter of Iblis reverberated through the room.

"It is done! My master, it is done!"

Gabriel dropped the urn. It seemed to fall in slow motion, breaking musically against the stone floor, a thousand pieces of fine porcelain spraying up and out, crumbling into fine black dust.

Iblis screamed, a shriek of infernal agony that slowly died into a thin wail of despair, as he shrank and collapsed onto the ground. The gargoyle-like features untwisted into humanity. The change did not stop there. At first, the familiar face of the handsome young violinist appeared. Then it seemed to collapse, the crepy wrinkles of age appearing as the skin sagged. The glorious mane of red hair faded into white. The muscular body folded into gauntness, the fragile limbs unable to hold themselves up and sinking weakly down. This was an old, old, man. The only recognisable part that remained of Lucien Laroche were the beautiful glass green eyes that were now filled with anguish.

"Gabriel, look!" Grace whispered.

He glanced up to see that he could no longer see himself in the great mirror. It had gone black, as if absorbing all the light from the room, instead of reflecting it. Dark shapes moved and writhed sinuously in the blackness, like the coils of a great snake.

"Grace, get out of here," Gabriel growled urgently. A terrible fear was rising in him, a fear born of recognition.

"I won't leave you!' she refused, though he could feel her trembling.

A dense black smoke poured from the mirror onto the altar, seeming to feed on the blood that soaked it. Before the horrified eyes of the spectators, the smoke rose into a man shaped column and solidified.

He was breathtaking. Dressed all in black, never had any human in the history of the world been so exquisitely perfect, so stunningly beautiful. His voice, when he spoke, was music in words.

"Ah, at last! I have been gone too long."

He was grace and power, beauty and strength in human form. He was seduction personified. He was the very essence of evil.

Gabriel fought to control the primal fear that surged up in him.

"Who are you?" he asked, fearing that he already knew the answer.

"Who am I?" the beautiful man laughed. "You know me, surely." His features flowed like oil, coalescing and changing. There were glimpses of familiar faces in the chaos: the Dragon, Dr.John, Von Glower, Tetelo, a thousand anonymous others, even, terrifyingly, Gabriel's own, before the features settled again into the sculpted perfection of the beginning.

"I have so many names. Does it matter? Men have called me Apophis, Samael, Iblis, Beelzebub... You may call me Samael, Gabriel Knight." He threw him a humorous look. "Oh, yes, I know you. I know you very well. As I know the one who stands by your side. Grace. A lovely name, for a lovely woman." His eyes wandered warmly over her as he spoke.

Gabriel quickly pulled the Seal from his pocket and thrust it into Grace's hand.

"You can't have her!"

Again, the amused laugh. "Don't be silly. Of course I can. Surely you don't imagine that little toy can protect you from me?" He gestured idly, and Grace cried out. She was drawn helplessly forward, to fall on her hands and knees at Samael's feet. She struggled upright and tried to back away, but another wave of his hand froze her in place. Samael drew a caressing finger idly down her cheek.

"Exquisite. Lucien, I must commend you on your taste," he smiled, turning to his debilitated servant who lay hopelessly on the ground before him. "Flawless, as usual."

Laroche raised a pleading hand toward his master, who ignored him with casual cruelty.

Sweat poured down Gabriel's terrified face. He was nearly at the end of his tether. As Samael descended from the altar and began to walk toward him, Gabriel pulled the hilt of Ascalon out and brandished it in a hopeless gesture of defiance.

Samael halted. Then he looked Gabriel up and down with a sort of amused affection. "What do you imagine you can achieve with that? You are not St.George, or even his heir."

"Maybe not. But I'm a Schattenjager, and I swore to fight for St.George's cause", Gabriel said bravely.

"Foolish child. And what if you are a Schattenjager? You are mortal, and mortals have always been my creatures. Others of your blood have fallen to me. What of Gunter Ritter, who abandoned the light? Don't you know that the sins of the fathers are visited upon their sons?"

Gabriel faltered, feeling the persuasive voice undermine his resolution.

"It is useless to resist me, child. Have you not felt the beast clawing itself outward from within you? You were born to serve me, not the light. To seek the shadows, to live in them, not hunt them."

Gabriel lowered his arm, doubts assailing him.

"Come, join me," the compelling voice prompted. "I will give you gifts beyond belief. Think of the future I can offer you! Think of the power, the knowledge! Give in to me, and you may have anything; wealth, beauty, eternal life; any woman you want, I can give you. Every fleeting whim, I will grant you: fame, fortune, whatever you wish."

Gabriel hesitated, looking down at the empty hilt in his hand. How could he fight this invincible creature anyway? He was no St.George, no hero.

_No, Gabriel! Don't listen to him. Believe in yourself. You are a Schattenjager!_ The urgent words rang in his thoughts, as if someone were speaking them directly into his mind. A flood of memories rushed through his thoughts. Last of all, the remembered glory of a shaft of light pouring into a dim chapel filled his head, steadying his wavering resolution. Gathering himself, he straightened up with desperate courage.

"I am a Schattenjager," he repeated quietly, and took a firm grip on the hilt of the sword. "I swore the Oath, and I'll keep it. Sorry, Samael, or whatever you call yourself, no deal."

"Fool!" Samael thundered, his form beginning to alter. It flowed up and out, expanding into a titanic new reality. The monstrous shape that now confronted Gabriel was the Dragon that had haunted his dreams. "Alone, do you hope to defeat Me? Look on Me and despair, weak and senseless mortal! Dare you stand against My will, puny thing? I AM INVINCIBLE!"

"That you are not, Father of Lies. Nor does he stand alone," a new voice interrupted. A bright, spectral form appeared next to Gabriel, so bright that he had to squint to look at it. The shape was human, a tall armored man.

"YOU!" roared the great Serpent. "IT CANNOT BE!"

"It can be, and it is." More ghostly, glowing shapes appeared, crowding the chamber. "All of us stand with him, we who are sworn to fight you, in life and in death. He does not stand alone," the deep, oddly hollow voice repeated, echoing weirdly as if across a great distance.

Gabriel, astonished, looked around him at the resplendent, insubstantial forms around him. On his left, a familiar face smiled at him. _Wolfgang?_ Gabriel asked silently. Pride and amazed gratitude swelled in him, along with a deep, overwhelming joy.

"Advance, Champion," the armored apparition said to him. Filled with calm certainty, Gabriel knew what he must do.

Raising Ascalon, he stepped forward. The sword flared to life, a blade of light and fire materialising out of the emptiness at the hilt. Brilliant as the sun it shone, bright as truth and courage, bright with fierce and righteous purpose.

Afterward, Gabriel would not know quite how he managed to dodge the Dragon's snapping jaws, how he ducked the sweeps of its massive tail; but he did. He ran past the Serpent, past the bloody altar, to thrust the essence of Light into the huge mirror that was the source of the Darkness.

The Serpent shrieked in indescribable, unearthly agony. Its flesh began to putrefy and dissolve. Again, it changed, uncontrollably shifting shape as the sum of all the misery of creation appeared and disappeared in its metamorphosing visage. Millions of years of despair, of unspeakable horror were reflected there, the price paid by the Prince of Darkness for his power.

At last, the unbearable scream died into a mere thread of mournful sound, and the great hulking shape of the dragon was gone. The mirror shattered, all at once, with a small, tinkling sound. Tiny fragments smoked and vanished into thin air, as if they had never been.

Gabriel looked around and found that the ghosts had gone as well, all except for one faintly glowing shape that raised a hand in benediction and farewell, before it too, disappeared.

"Gracie!" he exclaimed, running to her and raising her anxiously to her feet.

"I'm all right, Gabriel," she reassured him. "What about this lot?"

She pointed to the few trembling Cult members that remained, cowering in the corners. Gabriel threw back the hood of the nearest one and saw the blank, unseeing face of the blond man Laroche had called 'Alain'.

"I don't think they're going to give us any trouble," he said.

Together, they shepherded the dazed, uncomprehending cultists out of the chamber into the mine shaft. Gabriel supported the feeble old man who had been Lucien Laroche. He seemed completely unaware of his surroundings. Suddenly, the walls began to shake ominously around them.

"Let's get out of here!" Grace exclaimed, breaking into a run.

They all started running, even the cult followers needing no urging as sections of roof started falling around them. Desperately scrambling over, under or around the rocks and rubble in their way, the motley group raced for the exit. They ran straight into the group of policemen led by Commissaire Dernaud.

"There you are! We lost your signal when you went into the tunnel. It took us a hell of a long time to find the entrance," the Commissaire explained. Then, looking around, he asked, "Where's Laroche?"

Gabriel and Grace looked wordlessly at the aged husk of a man who was all that remained of the famous and successful violinist. Dernaud gave the old man a curious look, and then did a sharp double take when he noticed the green eyes in the wrinkled face. Another quake shook the tunnel.

"We'll explain later," Grace said quickly, as a crevasse opened in the ground just behind them. "Let's move!"

In wordless agreement, the policemen turned to comply. The old man came suddenly to life. With unexpected strength, he wrenched free of Gabriel's grip and backed away.

Dernaud and Grace were the only ones who noticed, and stopped to wait for Gabriel.

"Please..." the old man whispered in a cracked voice, as Gabriel stepped toward him, halting the younger man in his tracks. With a long sigh, Laroche stepped over the edge, falling silently into the fathomless darkness below.

Exchanging a wordless look, the three witnesses to the end of the Slasher of Gisors turned to race out toward safety.

**********************************

   [1]: http://www.geocities.com/maya_ar/myfic.html#IBDIDN Index



	9. Epilogue

  
**[In Brightest Day, In Darkest Night...][1]**   
**[A Gabriel Knight Mystery][1]**

**Epilogue**

**_"That is not dead which can eternal lie_**   
**_And with strange eons even death may die."_**   
**_-- Olaus Wormius._**

**********************************

**Excerpted from**

**The Journal of Lucien de Carnay, Comte de la Roche-Mortain.**

10 November 1540   
Today I discovered a new compound. I believe this may be the answer I have been seeking. If I am right, then the plague will never afflict our people again. Already, I have outstripped my teachers at the university. Their narrow minds cannot comprehend the breadth of my vision.

3 March 1541   
How extraordinary! At last, a new discovery. Today I am renewed in purpose. Let the fools scoff if they will. I will silence them once and for all. The secret of eternal life and health may be within my grasp. Who would have thought that old Templar text, so long forgotten, would yield such a rich treasure!.

13 May 1542   
The days grow long and weary. I tire of my researches. Even the Jesuits cannot help me. Prating priests, the lot of them. Their so-called wisdom is a sham. All the Moorish texts that I bought and studied, every obscure text that I have acquired, through fair means and foul... Tantalising hints, and nothing more. Must I search forever in vain?

23 October 1543   
My travels have been in vain. No one knows what became of Alzhared's lost books. A fortune spent in vain. Yet I would gladly squander all my wealth to gain a single glimpse of the forbidden secrets. Must I retrace that cursed Moor's footsteps all the way? What was he, this small, obscure, man, that he was granted the knowledge that is denied me?

2 Feb 1544   
Success at last! Jerusalem finally yielded the secret I have sought for so long. I regret that I was forced to kill the old man, but he should not have tried to deny me, after I have searched so long. I shall return to France at once. I must prepare.

23 June 1544   
Tonight I shall achieve the dream. And all the world shall know that my vision was the true one! All men will thank me. I, Lucien de Carnay shall be the saviour of mankind.

(Not dated, in broken script)   
God forgive me! What have I done? The old man was right. I am lost, and no one can help me...

**********************************

Gabriel sat at Michael's bedside, waiting for the nurse to leave them alone. When she was gone, he silently handed back the Seal of Solomon to its rightful owner.

Michael accepted it with a smile. "What about Ascalon?" he asked, with a quizzical look.

"I put it back," Gabriel said. "It seemed like the right thing to do," he explained, in answer to the raised eyebrow.

"I think so, too," Michael agreed.

"What, no questions about what happened down there? The Commissaire was full of them," Gabriel grinned.

"Well, can you blame him? He wasn't there, after all. Missed all the excitement."

"So did you," Gabriel pointed out. Then he directed a very narrow look at the painter. "Or did you?"

"What do you think?" Michael asked, a mischievous gleam in his eye.

"You were unconscious in hospital through the whole thing."

"I know. But I had these strange dreams..."

Gabriel nodded in complete comprehension. "Yeah, I'll bet you did."

Grace came in to join them. A warm light sprang into Michael's brown eyes at the sight of her. Gabriel noticed, and became acutely uncomfortable. He got up to leave.

"I'll be seeing you. Get well soon."

"Leaving tonight?" Michael asked.

"Yeah. Listen, if you ever get into something like this again..."

"Yes?"

"Don't call me, man. I've got enough problems of my own." He grinned.

Michael returned the smile, and held out his hand in farewell. Gabriel took it in a firm clasp.

"Take care, Gabriel."

"Yeah, you too."

Grace sat down by the bed, taking the chair Gabriel had just vacated.

"I just came from Father Jean. He'll be up and around in a couple of days, the doctor said."

"He's a tough old man," Michael said, studying her face.

There was a brief silence. Grace fidgeted, and looked down at her entwined fingers.

"Grace."

"Yes, Michael?"

"Are you going back with Gabriel?"

Such directness could not be evaded.

"Yes, Michael. I'm afraid I am. I'm sorry."

"I see."

"He needs me, Michael."

He digested this in silence. "And you need him." She met his eyes. "Don't you?" he smiled.

"Maybe." she admitted. "I'm sorry, Michael", she repeated.

"So am I, Grace." His brown eyes held a world of regret.

She bent to kiss him lightly, a salutation he accepted passively.

"I'll never forget you, Michael."

"Nor I you, lovely lady."

When she left, he lay back on his pillow and stared at the ceiling in silence.

**********************************

**_*Schloss Ritter, Wednesday, 25 June.*_**   


Gabriel joined Grace on the bench in the garden, to look out at the spectacular view as the sunset painted shadows across the valley.

"Gracie?"

"Hmm?" she murmured absently.

"I'm glad you decided to come back."

She looked at him, and he shifted uneasily under her gaze.

"I know," she said finally.

They fell silent. Gabriel contemplated the view, feeling strangely content and at peace. After a while, he broke the silence.

"Gracie?"

"Yes?"

"Are you doing anything tonight?"

**********************************

**_"In brightest day, in darkest night,_**   
**_We are the Champions of the Light._**   
**_Steadfast our will 'gainst evil's might_**   
**_We keep our Oath, we keep the Right."_**   
**_-- Maya_**

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   [1]: http://www.geocities.com/maya_ar/myfic.html#IBDIDN Index



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